


A Study In Neurotype

by Zwaluw



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Asexuality, Autistic Sherlock, Depression, Friendship, Gen, Misunderstandings, Neurodiversity, Not Season 2 Compliant, Suicide Attempt, Too many misunderstandings., post season 1 AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-29
Updated: 2017-04-12
Packaged: 2018-05-03 23:21:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 55,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5310968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zwaluw/pseuds/Zwaluw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock did not expect to be stuck with an annoying goldfish again. He didn't expect to like her either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Lots of thanks to Nautilicious and PipMer for beta-ing this monster and to all the folks in AD for the endless encouragement. 
> 
> Canon is horribly devoid of Autistics, so I set out to correct it.
> 
> Edit: The fic is finished, but I'll be posting one chapter on Sunday every week, so I have a bit more time to edit.

Sherlock was bored. Bored, bored, bored.  The speaker’s voice droned on, Sherlock had deigned to listen when he introduced himself and had even managed to catch the subject of the talk. Dealing with meltdowns. As if he had any. After that the speaker’s words had been reduced to that lovely humming that happens when you almost completely tune out someone's voice. He had hoped against hope that giving in and going would have helped, but it hadn’t at all. Damn John. Damn him. The bastard had booked the tickets and told Sherlock that it would be good for him to go. And then, after everything went to hell, John had still had the nerve to call him and tell him to go anyway. As stupid and gullible as he was he'd actually listened. Now he was sitting here being bored out of his skull, just like he would have been at home.

 

He glanced around the theatre, looking at the people attentively listening to the boring goldfish on the dais. Everyone sat in groups with some space between each group. Well, almost everyone. Sherlock and a few others sat on their own, like islands in a red sea of empty seats. At least the organisers had recognised their audience’s need for the least amount of physical closeness possible. He had already deduced most things about the people around him and it had been boring as hell. Stupid goldfish with stupid lives.

 

He chanced a glance to his left. There was a girl, or maybe she was a young woman, he couldn't care less about her age right now. She had sat down a few seats too close for his liking, at precisely ten minutes before the lecture would begin. It irked him, but he wasn’t about to move. Her feet were curled underneath her and there was a notebook lying on her knees. Moleskine, ruled, barely used. Her shoes were a brand he couldn't determine, but the leather was natural and not very well cared for. There was mud in the crevices and the soles were worn flat and he wondered what a farm girl was doing in the city.

 

She was wearing a skirt and a blouse. Both cotton and both handmade. Sherlock snorted, just to see what would happen. The girl flinched, but she didn't take her eyes off the speaker.  Her hair was a reddish-orange, secured with a stick made from Russian Maple. Dyed with henna, his mind happily supplied. She had reacted at his snort which implied she was on guard, or uncomfortable, maybe a victim of bullying in earlier years, though that was extrapolating rather far. But she was a stupid idiot, just like the rest of them. Too slow and too bloody stupid. And he was still bored.

Sherlock started as suddenly the speaker had stopped his nonsensical idiocy and now the goldfish were blabbing again. Apparently the goldfish had stopped spouting irrelevant nonsense and they now had a break before the next self-important scientist with some laughable paper came and bored them all to death. He stared at the silly girl next to him. She hadn't moved and she wasn't chattering like the rest of them. Staring always unnerved them. Sherlock found it funny, how horribly easy it was to get a rise out of them. Even John kept stumbling into his traps, but damn him. He noticed the girl was staring back at him now and she looked like she was making up her mind. The notebook snapped shut without a single word being written and there was something in her eyes and face that said 'to hell with it'. He wasn't entirely sure what that would mean for the conversation that was about to happen, but he had to admit to himself he was a bit intrigued.

 

'So, are you enjoying the conference?' She sounded vaguely nervous and high-strung.

 

Sherlock sneered. 'Bunch of self-important idiots.'

 

Her face instantly changed and the sneer froze on his face when he saw it. Sherlock knew an approaching storm when he saw one. Her face turned cold before his eyes and her eyes went hard like stone. 'Oh, you're one of those.'

 

He bristled at that, goldfish had no right to judge after all. 'I'm a high functioning socio...'

 

He was abruptly cut off. 'Oh no, you fucking don't, cut me the bullshit, will you.' He had accepted that there were going to be words, but he hadn't really expected her to flinch at her own words. She looked determined though, like someone who knew they were doing something hard but wanted to go through anyway. It puzzled him and he kept quiet, waiting to see what would happen. 'You want to hide behind a fictional label, fine, but don't bother me with it. You're lucky, you know.'  

 

It stung, but he still hadn't found his words back. The girl took a deep shivering breath and then the floodgates opened. 'I could see you looking, like we're all too low for you. Too stupid, too slow and too poor. I bet mommy and daddy bought you a therapist, didn't they? They provided their poor boy with the best care they could give. Made sure their lovely child wouldn't put a foot wrong. I bet you can simply indulge in any flight of fancy you have. You can insult and hurt whoever you want. Well, guess what, you're fucking lucky. I got to figure it all out by myself. I get to act as normal as I can so my boss won't fire me and I'm not homeless on the street. I get to look people in the eye and pray to god that they won't deny me a job because I sit wrong and look wrong and talk wrong.' Her volume was steadily rising and her voice was getting shriller and shriller by the second. 'But oh no, poor boy has to be a sociopath,' she spat out the word with contempt that had Sherlock startled. 'He has everything he needs, never has to worry but he's too self-important to not be unique. You're a bloody coward!'

 

She stood up from her seat and turned around, unsteadily walking away. Sherlock’s mouth still wouldn't work. He felt strange, off-balance. Her words were nothing, of course, he was used to people sneering at him and insulting him. But somewhere they struck a chord. Coward, it sung in his head. He shook his head and got ready to stalk back to Baker Street. The notebook on the floor stopped him for a second and then he decided to take it. Would teach her a lesson about shouting at strangers. All of it was boring anyway.

 

Her words followed him walking out of the hotel where the conference was held and then in the cab as well. Usually the sounds of London kept his head quiet, or provided a refuge against the chaos in his mind, but not this time. They chased him home and there even playing the violin wouldn't drown them out. Goodness knows he tried. He kept hearing them. Words half-shouted with a voice that was trembling with nervousness, as if she was afraid he was going to hit her for saying them. But she had still said them, stilted and confused as it all sounded. The morning presentation had been about that, difficulties with verbal communication. The girl had found it incredibly hard to speak to him like that, her face showed it like an open book, but she had done it anyway. And her point had come across even when in all probability half of her words came out wrong. Coward, she said.

 

There was tea on a tray for him left by Mrs. Hudson and before long the cup went against the wall. His hand was halfway to the gun in the drawer before he stopped himself. He was upset, upset over the words of some stranger. Some stranger who didn't even know him called him a coward. It didn’t matter, people called him things like that all the time. Not coward though. Freak and psychopath, that never hurt him. He hadn't let it affect him, not let them drag him down and make him feel worthless and horrible. So why was he feeling so horrible now? He didn't know and he couldn't, wouldn't figure it out. He ended up shooting anyway, small holes in the wallpaper with no rhyme or reason. His hands were shaking and when Mrs. Hudson checked on him the gun was flung against the wall as well. He couldn't talk, couldn't say it out loud.  She disappeared to her own flat again, seeing him like that, with a look of disapproval on her face he hadn't seen before. She would tut at him and say she'd take it off his rent, but she had never looked like that. He broke down and screamed his throat raw, but even that didn't change anything.

 

Sherlock was lying in bed, listening to his alarm going off. John bought it for him, because he went away and Sherlock would have to wake himself up now. It took him a moment to regain his consciousness even with it blaring. Conference, tickets, stranger. He shot out of bed, suddenly wide awake, fighting against the maelstrom of yesterday's feelings that shot past him again. His fingers shook as he thumbed the off button on the blasted machine. He wanted to go there again. See her again, the stranger who called him a coward. The rage and doubts had subsided somewhere in the night leaving curiosity in their wake. He sighed and slowly got up, not bothering with his dressing-gown, and stepping into the shower as quickly as he could so there was no changing his mind. The water got warm fast enough and it flushed the last flashing bits of memory away.

 

It had been ages since he last had such an outbreak of emotions. He knew why, he had always needed people around so his emotions wouldn't completely overwhelm him. Mycroft had taught him well, but he knew he couldn't contain his emotions as well as his brother did. He made sure they didn't show on his face too much, but couldn't keep them in their places in his own head. When he was busy, busy with a case, busy with experiments, then the emotions would all neatly stay in their places. It helped if someone was around, it seemed to cement the boxes he had made in his head. One box for rage, one for hate, one for caring and another for doubt. He never really could keep the good ones in, but at least they didn't scare people to death when they came out and took over his body. Yes, people often looked at him weird and according to John he was insensitive, but being insensitive wasn't nearly as bad as being locked up in a mental institution.

 

The flow of water stopped and Sherlock made his way into the bedroom again. And suddenly found himself contemplating his choice of clothes. Did he want to impress the girl? Sherlock stilled for a second, staring unseeing at his drawers. The girl was the only reason he was going back to that hellish place, there was no doubt about that. Maybe he could even ask her to clarify her words. That would hopefully stop them from echoing around in his head, since none of his usual techniques were working. But why would his clothing choice have anything to do with that... Impression. He wanted to make a good impression after her first thoughts of him weren't very flattering. But how on earth was he going to do that? A sudden change in clothes would possibly make her feel flattered, but could also elicit even more contempt. But on the other hand, she had shown remarkable hatred for the fact that he didn't need to think about money, or at least, that was what he thought she meant. His clothes weren't cheap, he knew that. Mother insisted on it, getting the good quality things, while Sherlock himself didn't give a damn about how he looked. But it wasn't an option to appear in his dressing gown now, was it? Nothing for it then, she would have to be flattered by the fact that he asked for clarification. It would be the usual shirt, jacket and trousers. His suit of armour.

 

Tea and toast had appeared while he was in the shower, with a faint air of 'I'm not your housekeeper' around it. Sherlock smirked and took the tea, the toast was a pointed reminder to eat, but he really didn't want to right now. He had a case first, even if no-one was murdered.

 

He strode into the hall and checked the schedule that was on a whiteboard. Two speakers before lunch, one after, same as yesterday. He was probably running late, but he didn't particularly care, he was only here for the girl. Yesterday he had shown up at the last presentation, because he'd spent the entire morning dithering about 221B trying to decide if he would go or not.

 

Most of the people were already seated, some were milling about. Sherlock kept on striding until he was nearly in his seat. He wouldn't have people talking to him and throwing off his game today. He only had to wait a minute or so before the girl came walking into the conference room, a lot steadier than yesterday, though he could see she required some level of effort to walk neatly and he wondered for a second why. She took the same seat as she had occupied yesterday and frowned vaguely at the ground before she focussed on the dais and the screen behind it. Sherlock settled in and prepared to be bored out of his mind and to pointedly not look at the devil beside him. Her notebook was already burning a hole in the pocket of his coat. The screen read 'Autism and SPD, Brothers in Arms' in a font that the creator must have deemed creative but readable. Sherlock huffed and then remembered he was on a mission and huffing was not in the directive, so he shut up and made a vague and bored effort at actually listening to what the speaker had to say, on the premise that boring himself out with not listening must actually be worse.

 

The second speaker had, to his great surprise, actually been interesting. The plump woman with greying hair talked about the mystery of the brain at length and she actually had some new information that Sherlock carefully stored away in the appropriate room. He chanced a glance at the girl through the talk, just one wouldn't be too risky for his mission. She was completely entranced by the words, her nose was almost on the notebook (same brand, grid, heavily used) in her hand while she was scribbling along. Her hair was loose this time, and it was falling around her. She didn't even brush it out of her face so enveloped she was in the stream of information coming her way. Maybe not such a goldfish after all, if she could keep up with what the speaker was babbling about. He'd have to quiz her on it later, to see if he should consider changing his goal slightly. And then suddenly it was over and people were starting to get up and leave for their lunch.

 

Sherlock knew he had to say something now, get her attention and ask his questions while she was still attentive and not yet drained from all the listening. She even made it easy for him, staring at him when she noticed he was standing but not actually leaving yet. Sherlock puzzled over it afterwards, wondering how the heck it had happened that the next words out of his mouth weren't the ones he meant to say at all. 'Would you like to have lunch with me?'

 

The girl looked surprised and Sherlock had to throw every ounce of willpower at his face to not look surprised himself. The girl seemed hesitant, he could see the admonishments thrown at every young woman going through her head.

 

'Ok,' was the answer he got, and she seemed even more surprised about it than she was about the question.

 

Sherlock’s brain kicked into gear at that. More data to work with and more outcomes to plan. Now, where was he going to take her? The same dilemma from his morning ablutions cropped up again. Flatter, but not alienate. What would she like to eat? Taking her to a take-out wouldn't do, he could hear Mycroft and Mother tutting in the background about proper conduct. He could flaunt it and go anyway, but she would probably be uncomfortable and that wouldn't help the mission at all. So, expensive, but not too expensive. And...

Oh.

 

He felt stupid for a second, but at least he had caught his mistake before it happened.  He was at a goddamn conference about autism of all things and he hadn't even caught the obvious signs. Long hair, loose clothing and the headphone case sticking out of her open backpack. So, it would have to be quiet. No music and not too many people. Sherlock looked at the girl; he knew his thoughts had only taken a second or more, but now he would probably have to go to his mind palace to find the right place and that might be a problem. John had told him that he twitched sometimes when he went here and it wouldn't do to spook her. Thankfully she solved the problem herself.

 

'I'll just get ready then?' She smiled a slightly embarrassed smile and gestured at the papers strewn about the seats surrounding hers. His mouth quirked at that and he nodded.

 

'Of course, it isn't far.' He turned to the dais, trying to make it look like he was occupying his time before she was ready, and closed his eyes. Now, quiet, small and above all, no music. Sotheby's was too posh and Rules as well. Sherlock tried not to tear through the mind room like his life depended on it, but he couldn't help hurrying as much as he could. He also couldn't help smiling when he found the perfect fit. The Cloister seemed perfect, she was a smart goldfish and judging by the blouse she had worn yesterday she was interested in history. Yes, The Cloister would be marvellous.

 

He opened his eyes and turned back to see her carefully but frantically putting the papers in a plastic envelope for storing, looking as if she was afraid he was going to change his mind any second if she tarried. It only took another few seconds before the backpack was zipped up and her coat was on. The backpack was well-worn at the edges and there was a smear of soot or oil on it. Well-used, not particularly careful with it, the make was again unknown and it irked him. It seemed like she appreciated her possessions a lot, but they weren't sentimental, or the soot would have been cleaned off. He stepped forward before she could get even more nervous and offered his arm. The look on her face made him wonder if he had miscalculated and the gallantry was overdone, but she took it and didn't seem put off. The ride to the restaurant was quiet. The girl looked like she wanted to talk, but she never said a word and Sherlock didn't feel like pushing.

 

The girl looked suitably impressed when they walked into the courtyard and then excited when they entered the Church. Sherlock saw her look at her feet on the steps into the building and resolved to ask her about it if they ever talked again after he had his clarification. _Oh, come on Sherlock,_ said Mycroft in his head, _when did you take goldfish out for lunch, you're enamoured with her, brother mine._ Sherlock squashed the voice and was suddenly even more determined to get out of her what he wanted and be on his way. He made certain the sentiment didn't show in his behaviour and even took her coat. It wasn't a proper coat, it was one of those bright blue outdoor raincoats and just like the backpack, it was well-used. There were hairs stuck in the velcro, her own and what could only be a cat. There weren't any hairs on her clothes though, so she must be away from home. The few words she had said didn't shed an enormous amount of light on where she came from though. She wasn't British, but her English was relatively clean, without glaring accent or mistakes. It was European, he got that, but which country exactly he couldn't say. It didn't really matter of course, but it was always nice to have some conversation starters.

 

By the time he had hung their coats on a stand near their table she was already seated and looking around her with obvious excitement on her face. He hadn't seen a camera when he looked at her backpack, but he wouldn't be surprised if she had one. He could see she was looking at what the light did on the windows and the vaulted ceiling. She barely even noticed him sitting down opposite to her. Until she glanced his way and was suddenly transported into reality that didn't consist of apertures and focal points. It didn't take long until she was violently blushing. Sherlock could practically hear the apology she wasn't giving and felt he might need to take her mind off it in order for his mission to succeed. He decided opening the conversation with a shot in the dark was a good idea.

 

'So, are you enjoying London?'

 

He hadn't thought it possible but the blush deepened further, but despite the embarrassment she gave him an answer. 'I haven't gone out of the hotel,' she hesitated and then explained further. 'It's my first time travelling on my own to a place I don't know and I'm not dealing with it very well.'

 

There was another pause and Sherlock didn't know what to say. It showed that she wasn't expecting platitudes or pity. Even with her cheeks burning red, it had been delivered quite matter-of-factly. When he didn't answer the blush actually subsided a bit and she seemed to relax into the chair a bit more. 'There's so much I would like to see, but then I'd have to take the Tube, or ask for a taxi and somehow whatever I want to see is less exciting when I have to deal with how to get there.'

 

Sherlock got away with a hum for a reply to that, because the waiter had spotted them and descended upon them with the menu. Sherlock looked up soon enough from his menu to see a look of utter terror on her face. So, she probably had never been taken to lunch by anyone and was now frantically trying to decide what was appropriate or not. Sherlock felt that he had to come to her rescue, she had to be comfortable enough to give him an explanation for her rude words yesterday. 'So, if you haven't seen London, I presume you haven't had scones either?' He was rewarded with a smile and the terror went away.

 

'On the contrary, I've made scones, but they were probably not as good as London ones.'

 

If that hadn't broken the ice enough, Sherlock didn't know what else he would have to do or say. Fall to his knees and beg? 'We would both like scones,' he addressed the waiter. 'I'll have cider and she'll have...' 'Apple juice, please,' she filled in.

 

While the waiter walked away Sherlock realised he didn't know her name. Somehow introductions hadn't been made and now he had to look for a way to do it without looking or sounding awkward. And there was no way to do that, so simply getting it out of the way would be best. He checked that the waiter was out of earshot though, if he was forced to act like an idiot he'd rather do it with the least amount of witnesses possible. 'I'm Sherlock,' he said, giving her a smile because a handshake over the table would be infinitely worse. Her eyes snapped back to him from their wandering over the ceiling.

 

'I'm Marloes,' was her answer. 'Gods, it always sounds so strange in an English sentence.' Dutch then, with arguably impeccable English, since he hadn't been able to deduce it. They fell silent for a moment, both wondering what on earth you say to a stranger you've only met the day before. It took Sherlock some time before he managed to speak. He wanted to be absolutely certain this wouldn't come out in a different way than he wanted to.

 

'I would like an explanation about yesterday. I understood you were angry, but I don't entirely understand why.' Ugh, it hurt to say it, but it would have been a thousand times worse if he had to say it to Lestrade. Imagine that, Sherlock Holmes not understanding something, they would be laughing in his face. She looked completely surprised and it wasn't fleeting. She wasn't staring at him but at the table surface, there was confusion in her face and a hopeless feeling about her, like she was wondering how she had to respond to his words. Sherlock almost felt compelled to repeat himself, which he honestly never ever considered.

 

She kept looking at the table surface, but at long last she started to speak. 'I can try... It's hard though, but I'll try.' She spoke softly and somehow stilted, as if she had to force the words out.

 

Before she could say more, the waiter arrived bearing plates with still steaming scones on them. She didn't touch her plate when it was before her though, though she did look up and thanked the waiter. Sherlock calmly dealt with his food. His mother had warned him often enough that it wasn't polite to push food around his plate, so he simply ate, taking care that he didn't go too fast, or his body would likely rail against him. John and the rest of them thought he was simply his strange self when he said he didn't eat on a case and nobody even asked why. Nobody figured it might be because on a case he wouldn't be able to eat slow enough to keep his stomach happy. And not eating was a lot better than painful stomach cramps. And thankfully she was taking her time, she seemed to be contemplating if she wanted to eat or explain first.

 

'It all comes down to privilege, really.' She took a bite out of the scone and savoured it, her face lighting up with pleasure until her eyes fell on his face and saw the confusion there.

 

'Oh... Yes, of course. I guess your mother never really had to explain that. Ok.' Another bite of scone and a deep breath.

 

'You're a guy, you're white, straight and your parents are quite rich. There's nothing wrong with that, but it does mean you have it easier than others. You won't have to work to keep a roof over your head.' There was a pause where she looked up from the table and actually looked him in the eyes for a second.

 

'I'm...' she looked even more hesitant all of a sudden. 'Sorry, this is pretty hard. But let’s say I don't fit in the gender binary, I'm white, I'm not straight and my parents don't have much money. That means I have it a lot harder to survive than you do. I'll have to find and keep a job to make sure I can feed myself, while you don't have to worry about that.'

 

Sherlock digested that and found that he had nothing to say. She was right to assume he had never heard of it, but it sounded true, if not right. Like he'd always missed some puzzle-pieces and they had only just slid into place. 'It's even more complicated with autism in the mix.' Sherlock squashed the urge to contradict her, she was right.

 

He had been diagnosed at the tender age of 3, after an acquaintance of his mother had remarked that maybe 3 year olds shouldn't be able to read Shakespeare, let alone understand it. There had been a string of psychologists and endless tests that were incredibly boring. Most of them had been impressed and stumped at the same time by his intellect. His father had jokingly remarked he took after his mother. At home, the label didn't change a thing but he found out quickly enough that at school he shouldn't say what was wrong with him. They called him a freak the first time he had explained. Later he noticed that people actually reacted less strongly when he called himself a sociopath, maybe because they didn't completely understand what it meant and it stuck. They would still regard him with suspicion and sometimes outright hate for his differences, but it was lessened a bit. But here he had managed to find someone who reacted stronger to his made-up label than to the fact that he had Aspergers.

 

'When it comes to autism, we're both pretty lucky. We can make ourselves understood, we can talk and communicate with neurotypical people. But there's people who can't do that, can't tell others what's bothering them or what they feel and think. So they get called non-human just because the idiots can't spot the signs they can give.' She was gaining speed now and spoke more easily.

 

Sherlock felt he had to say something at least and settled for: 'Your scone is going cold.' He was rewarded with a laugh and realised that despite what it looked like, she wasn't actually angry with him.

 

'Sorry, it just winds me up something awful that people decide others don't think and feel simply because they don't talk out loud. I mean, just imagine, if someone who's non-verbal doesn't have a support-system, can you imagine what happens? They'll be homeless and they'll probably die. It's just so fucking unfair! We need conferences like this one, that are autism-friendly, aim to educate people and don't spew cure-rhetoric like it's candy. It's going to be hard enough even without people murdering autistics.'

 

She didn't say anything after that but slowly savoured her scone and apple juice. Sherlock decided that it was worth his time just for seeing how happy she looked eating. Most people ate fast and hurried, barely tasting what was entering their mouth, whether they had take out or a Michelin star meal before them. But the person before him was like him, she must be, because the look of contentment on her face wasn't faked.

 

The idea sank in, sank a little further and then hit like a sledgehammer. Someone like him, someone who wasn't a criminal and wasn't crazy. The one in a million, or at least it felt like that. _Sherlock_ , Mycroft's voice boomed in his suddenly silent mind. _You're off on a tangent, brother mine. Mission!_ Sherlock jerked back to the present and tried to remember what the hell he was actually doing here. He wanted clarification and he'd gotten it now, so mission complete. He would have to investigate more, though, since it was clear she couldn't explain it perfectly. So, he simply had to bring her back to her hotel and go back to Baker Street and forget she had ever existed, easy really.

He should have realised it wasn't that easy. It was a logical assumption, because nothing was ever allowed to be easy in Sherlock Holmes’ life. It always had to be convoluted, annoying and dangerous. To be fair, he liked it that way.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The inner editor has struck, but there it is.

He knew something was wrong the moment they stepped back into the lobby of the hotel and he knew she knew it too, because her hand jerked involuntarily even with being tucked quite securely in the nook of his elbow. He thought it wouldn't hurt to keep the charade of chivalry up until she was back in her room, but it seemed something would be throwing a wrench into his plans. The receptionist's eyes had been scanning over every single person that came through the doors and she looked agitated even from a distance.  When her eyes fell on the pair of them she paled quite a bit further. Sherlock thought for a moment that it was about him, but he was proven wrong quickly.

 

'Miss van Dijk!' There was a mixture of relief and dread on the face of the woman. 'I'm so sorry Miss, but your room...' there was a pause while she desperately tried to find the right word. 'It's been ransacked.' 

 

Sherlock could feel Marloes -ugh, it sounded horrible indeed, he would have to call her Miss van Dijk in his head- wobble on her feet for a moment, like she had lost her balance. It was an odd choice of words and Sherlock's interest was captured immediately. If his lunch date had been robbed, the receptionist would have been distraught, but perhaps not as distraught as she was right now. Ransacked implied that someone had gone through it with force, perhaps destroyed things? Well, he was going to find out soon, because Miss van Dijk hadn't actually let go of his arm and he wasn't about to let go of her if it meant he could investigate something that might be mildly mysterious.

 

'Oh god, at least the expensive stuff was in my backpack.' She sounded detached, like she felt it wasn't real. 

 

It was rather real though, the door had been hoisted off its hinges and there were even slashes on it, though they were added when the door was already off, so really just for authenticity. Sherlock knew the second he looked into the room that this was a message, and a bold one too. There was a camera in the far corner that hadn't been there before, he was sure of it. The light blinked at him. Sherlock's thoughts slowed for a second and then sped up again. Someone wanted to see his reaction. His reaction? Or the reaction of his date? 

 

She had been away since the start of the presentations, but nothing was wrong when they left for lunch. So it had happened between them leaving and coming back and they must have been away for about 2 hours, with her being entranced by the interior of the church. Someone had planned it, maybe because they saw the conversation of the day before. That was a very small time frame for such an  elaborate set-up, so who of his enemies would have that kind of resources? He really didn't want to come to the conclusion that he came to but it still filled him with guilt-ridden glee. Moriarty.  Because who else did his damned best to involve innocent people in his games with Sherlock? 

 

This particular innocent had let go of his arm and made her way into her room. Sherlock heard the whoosh of what could only be a knife going through the air and he reacted completely on instinct. Whatever mechanism the knife was on had only been activated the moment she walked into the room and not when they got in the sight lines of the camera, so she only had to be pulled backwards to be safe. Sherlock's hand shot out and caught the nearest bit of fabric he could find on her person and pulled with all his strength. She stumbled backwards and toppled over, flat on the ground, since Sherlock had stepped away. The straps of her backpack were cut through cleanly and there was a cut in her coat from shoulder to hip.

 

Sherlock reached for his phone while he stepped forward, looking at the still swinging knife. He hit the speed dial for Mycroft. His other hand stopped the swinging while he slipped past to survey where it came from and calculate the trajectory. It was really a masterpiece, the knife would have hit its apex at her stomach and probably caused significant damage.

 

'Mycroft.' He stepped further into the room and observed the damage. 

 

'Sherlock.' 

 

The room was in complete disarray. Bedding and curtains on the floor, her clothing haphazardly spread on top of it. It had been folded before, he could still see the crease lines. 

 

'I trust you know what happened.' Everything was slashed to bits, maybe with the knife dangling behind him. 

 

'Yes.' Her clothes had gotten extra attention, the only thing that was left of them were strips of fabric. He could see the sharpness of the knife because the stitching -handstitching- hadn't even been marred. 'Reparations will be made to Miss van Dijk.' 

 

'Naturally.' Sherlock put his phone away and looked around again. Pages of a book were heaped on the ruined mattress, from the height Sherlock thought that there were two. Someone had taken the time to rip them apart almost page by page. The covers of two paperbacks lay next to the heap, possibly to add insult to injury. On top of the mound lay the burned and shredded remains of a plane ticket. He snorted, first time out of the country indeed, or she wouldn't have left her ticket in her hotel room. 

 

He was about to leave when a flash of red fabric caught his eye. She didn't have any red clothing, so it had to be something else. Sherlock threw a pillow aside and grinned. There was a stuffed toy underneath, spared from the worst of the onslaught. A simple rectangle of cloth with a wad of stuffing in the middle of it, making a facsimile of a person. A security blanket, the fabric worn down and glossy from use. She must sleep with it in her hand every night. He snorted, at least looked like she might be able to mend it. He stuffed the toy into his pocket and with a last glance around he stalked out of the room. The camera blinked at his back. 

 

Marloes -ugh- looked like she was fine, she hadn't gotten up and her pupils were dilated, but her breathing was regular. She also hadn't moved, apart from propping herself up on her arms. 'You didn't use my name.' She sounded slightly slurred and was blinking at him furiously, like she was trying to keep her mind on track. So she was in shock after all, but dealing with it. The receptionist was nowhere in sight, probably been bribed. Sherlock sighed and squashed the urge to pinch his nose. 

 

She giggled. 'You hate my name too, great!'  

 

'Yes, it's all marvellous, come along now.' He grabbed her ruined backpack as an afterthought and fidgeted with the strap while she got up. Her movements were slow and halting, like she wasn't really paying attention. But thankfully she didn't waver when she walked and didn't need any assistance. Sherlock announced to the general air in the lobby that Miss van Dijk wouldn't be staying any longer, just for the benefit of the ears that would most certainly be listening. 

 

The cab ride was mostly silent, apart from when they neared Baker Street and Miss van Dijk suddenly opened her mouth and spoke. Sherlock felt rather put out that she did. 

 

'Mary or Louise.' 

 

Sherlock stared at her and watched with satisfaction as she started to blush. 

 

'I have to focus on something so I won't faint. It's what my name is a combination of and it might offend sensibilities less than an utterly Dutch word in an English sentence. Or you can make something up I suppose.' 

 

She kept her mouth shut after that and it had a distinctly drawn line to it that Sherlock completely ignored. He knew that Mycroft would be asking questions soon and he was itching to pull data and think. 

 

Sherlock was up the stairs and had his violin in his hands in no time. It often felt strange to be in his mind palace and play at the same time, but for a good thinking session nothing could beat it. When he surfaced, Mycroft was sitting in the opposite chair and staring at him with a meaningless expression instead of a meaningful one. 

 

There were odd whimpers coming from the couch and when Sherlock turned his head to make them stop he was speechless for a moment. The girl was on the couch, her shirt removed from her body while a paramedic   very carefully stitched together the part of the gash that ran over her breast. Her hands were clenched and her face shone with sweat and determination to not cry out in pain. The gash continued all the way to her hip, but the rest was shallow enough that stitching wouldn't do much. 

 

Sherlock saw a flash of what it could have been. Welling blood and insides and almost certain death because the ambulance wouldn't have been fast enough. He turned back his thoughts from that as fast as he could. He wasn't good with injuries if the person they're inflicted on still lived. 

 

He looked back to Mycroft and the staring continued. At some point the paramedic had dressed her wound and was looking at his boss with an expectant air to his face. Mycroft simply waved him away and the man went without another word. Soon after that Mycroft left as well, quite a bit wiser than before without a single word being spoken between them.

 

The girl was still sitting in the exact same spot as before, her breathing evening out with every second passing. The quiet didn't exactly last long since Mrs. Hudson decided it was the perfect moment to come up and fuss. Not over Sherlock mind you, but over the girl. A cup of tea was pushed into her hands and then Mrs. Hudson rushed down the stairs to her flat with an exclamation that might have been 'Indecent!' she came back with a cardigan that was rather too large. 

 

'But at least now you have something on, dear.' Mrs. Hudson was rewarded with a careful and most definitely faked smile, while the girl continued sipping her tea. 

 

Mrs. Hudson sat down next to her and cheerfully started talking. 

 

'You drink your tea, and then we'll get you settled. The doctor said you were to take this,' she put a bottle with a single pill in it on the coffee table. 

 

'Because you would be tired and in shock and sleep will help. I'll help you to your room and you can have a nice rest. I'll fetch you another cup, sweetheart.' 

 

The teacup was gently prised from the girl’s hands and Mrs. Hudson bustled out of the room for more tea. Silence descended once more. 

 

The girl was staring straight ahead of her and Sherlock took his time observing the chair opposite his. His fingers tapping against his lips as if in thought. 

 

'Sissi,' he said. She didn’t look up or respond to him unfortunately and soon Mrs. Hudson was back. She took her medicine obediently and it didn’t take very long before Sissi was led into the second bedroom. Mrs. Hudson didn't even look at him when she came out and went to her own flat again, but Sherlock’s smirk wasn’t meant for her anyway. 

 

Sherlock expected Mycroft to have sent a car in the morning, to cart her off to wherever she was supposed to live in the first place, but that didn't happen. Instead he looked up after a night of pacing through the rooms in his mind palace, trying to collect all the data he needed into one large room and found Sissi sitting on the couch again in one of his shirts. Mrs. Hudson addressed him cheerfully. 

 

'Sherlock, I let her have one of your shirts, the doctor said she had to wear loose clothing, but nothing I have is loose.' 

 

He was too busy processing the whole thing to reply, but Mrs. Hudson was far too used to that.

 

Sherlock didn't pay attention to his guest, he paced, he played the violin and ran through his mind trying to find something, anything. Once while collecting he stopped in one of the many halls and looked at a picture on the wall. 

 

The halls of his mind palace were littered with paintings that had no use whatsoever, because he had discovered that filling his head with only useful information led to unpleasantness like forgetfulness when he didn't need it. 

 

This painting showed a regal woman looking moodily out of the frame, with long red hair spilling over her shoulders and an expensive dress. Sherlock smirked and reveled in the feeling, even if there was no-one to observe. At least he had the chance to poke fun at someone, despite none of his data connecting into neat lines, information and action. 

 

* * *

 

 

‘I have to stay?!’ 

 

Sissi saw Mrs. Hudson cringe at the way her voice went shrill, and tried to calm herself down. 

 

‘Why do I have to stay?’

 

Realisation came upon her in a cruel flash and she couldn’t give Mrs. Hudson the time to respond to her question, words rushing out of her without thought. 

 

‘Kut, the cows are going to be birthing soon. I was supposed to go back tomorrow. Dad’s going to be so…’ She cut herself off in the middle of her sentence. 

 

Mrs. Hudson looked slightly puzzled for a moment but her face was split by a disarming smile soon enough. ‘Don’t worry about it, love. Mycroft will arrange something for sure.’ 

 

That didn’t reassure her at all, instead another thought had impacted and sent her spinning. ‘Dad’s going to sell Sandy for sure, now I’m away for longer. He always says horses are useless and a stupid hobby.’ 

 

 

* * *

 

Lestrade came bounding up the steps, his face tight and drawn with exhaustion. Sherlock could read the case from just his face and it looked like this would be an interesting one. Maybe a child or a young woman, or something extra gruesome. He was up and running off the steps as fast as he could, only picking up his coat as an afterthought. He stopped at the door and frowned at the sticky note on the wood, just at eye height. Sissi, it said in Mrs. Hudson’s neat script. He wanted to ignore it and just go but he knew his housekeeper wouldn't forgive him. Besides, Mycroft had made it clear that he wasn't to leave Sissi alone, because then she would most likely end up dead. Moriarty and his games became more and more violent, so it was the only logical conclusion that he wasn't going to let even an innocent person live if he felt like she had to die. And the ruined hotel room had stated his desires clearly enough. 

 

Sherlock huffed and went back up the stairs, holding his hand up to Lestrade in the clear Sherlock-speak that said 'wait'. She was sitting on the couch, like she had the whole day. A paperback novel was in her hands and she was staring at it without reading a word. Sherlock saw that the author was the same as with the ruined books and a silent part of him was happy she hadn't seen the destruction, because three books by the same author on a holiday was clearly sentimental. The corners were bent out of shape and soft with use, so she obviously read them often. He shook his head to stop the track his thoughts were on and motioned with his hand to get her attention. 'Come on,' he bit out, there was a fleeting look of understanding on her face that Sherlock completely missed, but she got up and followed him.

  
  


Lestrade's eyes widened in shock at seeing a girl following Sherlock out, but he wisely kept his mouth shut. He needed Sherlock and asking pointless questions wouldn't help. So he briefed Sherlock on their way to a suburb like all the other ones and watched the girl from the corners of his eyes, trying to learn about her and determine what on earth she has to do with Sherlock. Was she another John? 

 

Peripheral vision wasn’t very good for spotting details and Sherlock was too busy thinking and deducing to pay attention to Sissi. Donovan’s customary greeting usually wasn't preceded by 'Holy shit!' and the strangeness of it made both men turn on their heels. Donovan was rushing towards Sissi, whose face was so white it almost ghostly and beading with sweat. It distracted for a second from the bloodstain getting larger and larger. She was swaying on her feet and her eyes were so unfocused that Lestrade felt a shiver of dread. 

 

* * *

 

'Freak! What on earth did you do!' Sally waved her hand in front of Sissi's face and sighed when she didn’t even blink. Lestrade was next to her with three hasty steps, already anticipating what would happen next. He managed to catch Sissi before she hit the ground. Sherlock didn’t even blink.

 

'I couldn't leave her at 221B, I didn't know she would faint at the idea of a crime scene.' He sneered followed by an impatient, 'We're wasting time here!' Lestrade and Sally looked at him like he has gone mad.

 

She was breathing alright and her pulse was back to normal when Sally recalled to check. Or she would have to kill Sherlock where he stood. Having someone faint in front of you was a waste of time? She could feel her blood boiling. 

 

It didn’t take long for the girl to wake up, but Sally was still fidgeting with her mobile, trying to fight of her uncertainty. Situations like these were so hateful and somehow, it always happened when the freak was around. He just lived to make her uncomfortable. 

 

Of course, the first thing out of the girls mouth was an apology and she looked too miserable for words when both Sally and Lestrade had to help her into the car to sit, unable to even set one step on her own. If that wasn’t enough to make Sally absolutely furious, she kept telling them she was fine and they shouldn’t stay because they had much more important things to do. 

 

'I'm Sally,' she said after Lestrade paced after Sherlock and left her at the car. 'Who are you?' She tried to keep her voice pleasant and calm, because the girl didn’t deserve her anger. 

 

'Sissi, I'm Sissi and I'm so sorry I fainted.' 

 

Sally smiled at her. 'It's ok, you're in pain, just keep breathing and you'll be fine. Maybe I could get you something to drink?' Sissi nodded at her and Sally could see how she made an effort to breathe deeply, cringing every time her chest moved. She managed to wrangle some bad tea from another officer and held it out like a peace offering. Sissi took it with a smile and a thank you so soft Sally could barely hear it. She really hoped Lestrade was shouting abuse at the freak this very moment because he deserved that and then some punches to drive the point home. She tried to keep the questions that are crowding her tongue inside, but somehow Sissi spotted them anyway and gave a quiet nod after taking a sip of tea. 

 

'Go ahead, I don't mind, keeps my head off the pain.'

 

'How did you end up wounded like that?' Sally gestured at the bloodstain that was now showing perfectly through the purple fabric, a big splodge at her breast and then a thin red line down to her other hip. 

 

Sissi gave a smirk that was eerily like the Freak’s. 'I went out to lunch, if you'd believe it.' 

 

It took Sally's brain several moments to catch up with that statement and then the penny dropped. 'Hang on, you went out for lunch with the Freak? He eats!?' 

 

Sissi snorted in her tea. 'Strange, right? Apparently being taken on a date warrants destruction of your belongings and attempted murder. If he hadn't pulled me back when I walked into my hotel room I would have been dead.' 

 

Sally only caught one word in that sentence and found herself stupidly repeating it back to her. 'A date!?' 

 

Sissi looked her over and gave another snort. 'Yes and it was too good to be true.' Sally watched with a sinking feeling in her stomach as Sissi's face fell. 'He was nice, you know. Actually nice and polite. No guy is ever actually nice to me. And then I'm in his house and being told I can't leave and it turns out the ass was just acting.' Her voice broke on the last few words and Sally really wanted to hit him, square in the face so his pretty nose breaks. 

 

'Yeah, he does that,' she answered, without her normal heat. Silence reigned and Sally wished Lestrade was back soon, with a neatly closed case, so they could get on and murder Sherlock for his atrocities. Instead she could only watch as he swanned away in his usual manner, making her head swim with rage that almost made her knees buckle. 

 

'Hey, Freak!' Sherlock didn’t respond, though he stopped rushing, like her insult knocked the wind out of him. She tried to find the word that would most hurt him, that would make him stop and listen to her about how he can't treat an innocent civilian like that, but he was gone before she can think of anything. 'Damnit! He's made off again.' Sissi looked up from her tea with questioning eyes. 'He always runs off with this bloody spring in his step like a murder is the best thing that happened to him today. I guess it is.'  She wasn’t graced with an answer to that, but at least Lestrade was walking back to the car. Sally wanted to cry for a moment, seeing her boss so obviously exhausted and drained. Fucking Freak, always there to make everything even worse than it was before.

 

'Solved,' he murmured and almost stumbled when he saw Sissi still sitting in the front seat, her cup of meagre tea almost empty. Sally could see the sigh building, starting in his toes and working it’s way through his entire body. For a moment she expected him to break down. But he wiped his hand over his face and gained his composure again. 'Suppose we better drive you home then?' Sissi nodded hesitantly and then murmured an apology in a voice that made her feel tired herself. She watched as Sissi fell asleep on the back seat minutes before they even reach Baker Street, lulled by the lights and the motion and wanted to lay down her head herself.

 

Lestrade’s face softened when he saw her and somehow he managed to actually carry Sissi up the stairs and all the way to her bedroom, to softly set her on her bed and smile a loopy and tired smile. She wondered if he was seeing his daughter. Mrs. Hudson smiled at them, from her door with her hair all mussed from sleeping. Sally couldn’t help but stare at him. 'You're hopeless.' 

 

Greg frowned, the tired lines suddenly reappearing. His response was half-hearted and tired at best, as if he’s admitted some kind of defeat.

  
'Yeah, I know. Let's go home.'


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A ton of thanks to Birdy, for graciously consenting to be my spellchecker and encouraging me to edit and post even though my brain is pudding today. 
> 
> This chapter has a mention of rape, a detailed decription of a meltdown and offscreen violence.

Mycroft frowned at the screen before him. He was incredibly happy he had managed to convince Sherlock that CCTV in the second bedroom was in fact not an invasion of his privacy, but of Sissi's and that was rather more acceptable than invading Johns privacy had ever been. But what he was seeing did not make him happy at all. He felt the anger and annoyance bubbling inside, slowly rising every time he sat down and watched wretched scene after scene play out.

 

It hadn't been so bad in the beginning, but then he'd read the file. Some part of him wished he'd never read it but thankfully most of him knew better.

 

It was a bother and it was distracting, but none of that would kill him. He wasn’t about to intrude on Sherlock's life any more, unless he had to. And it would have to be justified, actually justified. He still was still sitting behind the screen with a glass of wine far too often for his own liking. There was no use in watching it all, when he could predict it.

 

She was doing well of course, in the way that people could do well around Sherlock. Which really wasn't well at all, but that didn't matter. He had seen Sherlock's web searches. And had stared at the screen in shock before his brain caught up. Before him was a goldfish that had managed to make Sherlock Holmes google 'privilege'. He supposed she deserved a Nobel Prize for that alone. His brother was indeed 'spectacularly ignorant' about many things.

 

Social issues had been one of those things, until now apparently. Now his little brother was diving deeper and deeper into things that he had been blissfully ignorant of for most his life. All because one girl had challenged his ideas and thoughts. Something dear Doctor Watson had never completely managed. He had challenged Sherlock, absolutely. He challenged him in superficial ways, but somehow Sherlock’s world never really changed, John merely slotted into place and then it continued turning in quite the same manner. Now however, Mycroft could feel Sherlock’s previously stable ground wobbling even from afar and the consequences of it were seen on his computer screen.

 

He had seen her stare at the small screen of her phone, seen her eyes widen in surprise at the numbers appearing on the screen. Mycroft felt he had to be charitable more often just to see the expression on her face again when she found her bank account contained much more money than it had before.

 

Curiously enough, she didn't spend a penny of it. Mycroft vaguely understood that that was what most goldfish did. They spent their meagre income and racked up debt and then when they finally paid it all off, they did it all over again.

 

Sissi only stared at her phone in shock and then when she had gathered her wits, she went and asked Sherlock about it. That had been a horrible thing to do in Mycroft’s eyes, perhaps it had been her first mistake, the first sign things were about to go downhill. She got a puzzled look and a snarky comment about wasting his time. She quieted after that.

 

And he had to watch as she started retreating into herself, the questions stopped coming until she was simply sitting on the couch the entire day. Reading. Sherlock hadn't commented on the fact that she was taking book after book off the bookshelves and devouring them no matter the subject. He was probably too busy thinking. Mycroft was surprised that he hadn't even ruthlessly deduced the girl’s life yet and brought her to tears, since it was his custom with strangers. Instead, the two occupied Baker Street together and it was almost peaceful.

 

That couldn't last of course. Over the next day as Sissi settled she became more and more aware of her surroundings. It was like a switch was flipped. She became irate and morose at the same time. Not even Sherlock’s books were a distraction now. But of course, she couldn't go outside, because Sherlock was furiously trying to connect the dots on Moriarty.

 

Mycroft felt it was a brilliant sight, the two of them alternatively pacing. Sissi would stand up and put the book she was currently attempting to read aside and practically run through the apartment. And then when she had calmed down enough to sit and wrestle her way through the book again, Sherlock would have a fit and start pacing, sometimes he would even play his violin. Playing was exaggerated though, he alternated between plucking randomly at the strings and eliciting an enormous cacophony from the poor instrument.

 

After another battle of screeching cats Sissi retreated to her room. She looked wasted and tired as if the violin had worn her away. The walls of her room did little to dampen the sounds and even her headphones weren't up for the challenge of keeping the sounds of Sherlock's  fury out. He could see the patience and energy flow out of her with every note. And vaguely wondered how much time it would take before she would confront Sherlock. Most people did eventually, with unsatisfactory results.

 

It only took another half hour before she broke down.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock was jerked out of his thoughts rather abruptly as the door slammed shut. He opened his eyes to see Sissi coming towards him. Unlike the door slam indicated, she didn't look very angry. Tired and crumpled but not angry. It threw Sherlock off balance, he could deal with anger. It was clear and clean and he understood it. Sissi on the other hand, puzzled him. Not like Moriarty or any cases. Those were puzzles that made sense, that could be solved and arranged and dealt with. If he had insufficient data, he could find more and then the pieces would slot into place and everything would be good. But he could barely read her, even with everything he had managed to deduce about her the pieces didn't seem to fit. As if he was working on a puzzle with rules he hadn't read. The fact that she was wearing his clothes only made it worse.

 

Mrs. Hudson had insisted on it, more fiercely than he was used to. She had remarked that his old clothes were too small for him, but not too small for her. And she wouldn't stop until Sherlock had gotten them from the back of his closet and given them to Sissi. She looked ridiculous, especially because both the shirt and the trousers were too long. Mrs. Hudson had mumbled something about hemming and beamed at them both. Now all the signs of her life seemed to have been erased. No signs of her occupation or thoughts. No clues about her life before they had met. Sherlock supposed it didn't really matter, but part of him was angry that his opportunity to find out had been taken away.

 

He surfaced from his thoughts and realised that she had been talking to him. It must have shown on his face because he didn't even need to ask for a repeat. She looked hesitant though, as if she was afraid her words would be met with anger. So unlike before. 'I was wondering...' her voice died away before she would finish her sentence. Sherlock huffed with annoyance at that and took an extra good look at her. He was sure he could find out what she wanted, even if she was a puzzling case. Her hair was still in the crumpled braid Mrs. Hudson had made the night before. She was clenching and unclenching her hands, even shifting her balance from foot to foot.

 

The picture assembled before his eyes with startling clarity. She was restless, probably not used to sitting still for long amount of time with nothing on her mind. Obviously the noise had worn her down, by the way her eyes were drooping. From the little he heard her say it sounded like she wanted him to stop playing. Suddenly Sherlock felt spiteful. He needed data anyway, he'd give her something to do. 'Fine!' he spit and delighted in the flinch he got in return. He easily moved off the couch and bounded toward the staircase, startling her even more. 'Let’s go!'  

 

Sherlock found that Sissi was not the kind of person to play along. She followed him around London, without a single complaint. But every time Sherlock looked around after another unsuccessful questioning or lead he saw her become paler. She jumped when people brushed past her and at some point he saw her become stiff and drawn simply from the sounds of the taxi. A part of him wanted to stop, show some sympathy and go back home. He knew how it felt after all, some days the sounds of London weren't soothing but invaded his head and added to the chaos of his thoughts until it all became unbearable and every single sound was accompanied by a stab of pain.

  


Sherlock shook his head. He was being silly. She deserved it, invading his flat like that. Messing with his books and taking up Mrs. Hudson’s attention. She deserved every stab of agony for ending his comfortable solitude. His stride lengthened and Sissi almost had to run to keep up.

 

* * *

 

Sissi tried to quell the panic that was seeping through her veins with every step. Her feet hurt and the asshole still kept going. It felt like needles were stinging the soles of her feet every time her shoes hit the pavement. She didn't know where they were going and she didn't care. She needed every bit of her focus to keep up with his rushing. And when they stopped to talk to someone things became even worse.

 

He would dash off sometimes. Taking a turn she couldn't expect or run up steps she couldn't take. So she was left standing while people rushed past her. The lights got brighter every time she was left behind. She tried her best to act like there was nothing wrong. To act like the lights weren't blinding her and she wasn't tired. She tried to say something when he came up behind her suddenly, with a disappointed look on his face. The words got stuck on her tongue and her throat felt constricted and dry. And before she had even managed to take a deep breath he was off again. So she followed, trying even harder to keep up, knowing that if she lost him somehow she wouldn't even be able to ask for directions. At some point someone had bumped into her heavily and she was spinning on her feet gasping in pain and confusion. Sherlock taking her arm had been like being shocked after that. Every little sound in the taxi was jumping out at her, piercing her skin and stabbing at her head. She had to force her hands down and clamp her nails into the flesh into her thumb to not cry.

 

When Sherlock next disappeared there was a café and the pumping bass was too loud and too heavy, pulsing through her head until she couldn't feel anything but the noise. Someone brushed past her and Sissi realised that Sherlock wasn't back. She couldn't move, her feet weren't listening to the rest of her. She couldn't even look around to see where he was. And then someone crashed into her. It felt like being crushed, daggers, needles, pain. The bass paled in comparison to the man’s voice. _What are you doing get out of listening fuck._ Everything froze while she scrambled to make sense of the words hitting her like hammers.

 

Sissi jolted, her breath ragged and her whole body aching. Her hands were trembling and the thundering of a train wrecked her brain. What happened? There were no lights here and when she looked up she could almost see the stars. Light blinded her. _Hey doing get out._ Flash light, it echoed through her mind.

 

Moving, running, crying.

 

Now her whole body seemed to be trembling, her vision dancing with spots. Breathing, breathing was important. Had to keep breathing. The trembling didn’t stop and the spots kept dancing their merry way. At least it was quiet here. Trees stars quiet calm man. He didn’t look well meaning even when she was only seeing flashes and stills. Then he was closer. Too close. Closing. Oh god oh god oh god. Couldn’t move, couldn’t talk, couldn’t protest, couldn’t scream. He was saying words, she could see his mouth moving and his eyes looking, but her ears didn’t work and everything was silent.

 

'Hey, back away from the girl. Police.'

 

A part of her realised the world wasn’t as strange as the seconds before. Still wrong, still constricted and painful and tired. But not wrong, no terror coursing through her veins any more. Not lost. She could see him frowning at her, when she blinked and tried to hear the words he was saying. They glided over her like water and before she could make out their meaning, they were gone again. She knew she had seen him before, but every time she looked at his face her eyes slipped away. The waterfall stopped. He only looked at her now and it wasn’t a scary look. Just a normal look, just someone she knows looking at her face.

 

'Lestrade,' he said, slowly letting the syllables roll off his tongue. There was clarity. Lestrade, the detective inspector. Sally. Tea. Sissi let out a breath and felt her knees wobble. The frown deepened even further. She wanted to talk, to say something, to explain. But her tongue was tied in knots and her throat didn’t let the words out.  Tears started trickling down her cheeks. After what feels like hours he took her elbow, firmly and then slowly walked her to a bench.

 

'Sit and breathe. I understand.' She tried, tried so hard. But breathing hurt and suddenly she could feel again. Felt the stitches pulling and noticed the sharp stabs of gashes on her knees. It came so suddenly that she saw the spots increasing until there was only black and white snow and then a vague sensation of falling.

 

 

* * *

 

'I've found her. She's not hurt. Not that I can see.' Lestrade resisted the urge to chuck his mobile against the wall. Sherlock had called him just as he was walking to his car, to go home and rest. To his credit, the man almost sounded panicked when he relayed he couldn't find Sissi. Lestrade found it did little to dampen the anger. He had seen the blank look on her face after he chased her assailant away. She didn't even recognise Lestrade but she was trying to talk, probably to explain. Maybe to apologize. He was too aware of what that meant for her situation, what her life was like. Now she was leaning bonelessly against the wall, her eyes closed and her face slack. He could see her trying to gather her remaining energy. And he could also see she couldn't find any. There was a frown on her face and her breathing hadn't changed at all. If he blinked he could almost see his own kid sitting in her place. That was the wrong thought, his anger was almost palpable now, almost visible in the air.

 

'Sorry.'

 

Lestrade almost missed it, it wasn't even a whisper, it was an exhale of breath with syllables attached.

 

'It's not your fault, you did nothing wrong.' He took pains to speak slower than usual, she probably didn't know sign language, but he found his fingers were itching to sign at her. It hurt his heart to talk to her when she flinched at every word.

 

She snorted at his words. 'I had a meltdown, I did everything wrong.' Her words were flat and slow but they came out anyway, like a reflex. Lestrade didn't know what to say to that, so he tried to focus on his paperwork.

 

Sherlock came sauntering in just ten minutes later. Every ounce of forgiveness and patience Lestrade had faded. If he had looked his normal self, or vaguely repentant that would have pleased Lestrade. But instead there was a smirk on the blasted face, like it was marvellous that he had lost the person he was supposed to keep safe. He tried to rein his anger in, knowing that if he shouted now Sissi would get worse again. Just like Sofie. He got up, intending to take Sherlock and go somewhere where he could shout at the ass in peace. He couldn't keep his voice level though, no matter how hard he tried.

 

'Sherlock, there you are.' Sherlock didn't even respond and Lestrade suddenly felt the dam break. 'What the fuck did you think you were doing?!' He got the satisfaction of watching the smirk slide off Sherlock’s face. The detective stuttered after that. Sherlock Holmes was actually lost for words. 'I...I needed data.'  

 

'Data!?' There was a whimper from the chair behind them and Lestrade felt a pang of guilt. He pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath in a hopeless attempt at calming himself down. 'Look, we need to get her home. I don't know what happened, but she almost got raped.'

 

That had Sherlock paling rapidly. Lestrade smiled wryly, two miracles in one day. How to make Sherlock Holmes lose his cool: have someone lost get lost in London and almost raped. Seeing that knocked the wind out of his sails, he knew he wouldn't get any more reaction than that. Knew he couldn't make him apologize and now that he had let of some of his anger, it felt like a waste of time and energy to let the rest out. He could always shout at Sherlock sometime where he wouldn't feel guilty with every word because it reminded him too much of the arguments with his wife while Sofie was crying in the background. Maybe he should let Sally abuse Sherlock for a bit, she would be exploding with rage when she heard of this.

 

Sherlock didn't answer him, maybe because he knew that saying the wrong thing would set Lestrade off again, maybe because he didn't have an answer and actually felt guilty. That would be a new one. Lestrade pulled his thoughts together and walked to Sissi's chair, trying not to look at her too much lest he break down completely and cry in front of Sherlock. He crouched in front of her, making absolutely sure he didn't look her in the eyes. 'You can't stay here and you're tired, so we need you to get into the car so we can take you home. Can you do that?' She didn't respond for a long moment, but then he saw her nod and watched helplessly as she tried to get up and wobbled on her feet before crashing to the ground.

 

Lestrade found he had to take another deep breath because his vision was starting to blur. 'Sherlock, I want you to hold the doors open for me. I'm going to carry her to my car.' Sherlock remained silent, but Lestrade saw him move to the door. He addressed Sissi again. 'I'm going to lift you now and I'll be careful.' She frowned and he could see her straining to speak, probably to tell him she was fine and didn't need to be carried, but no words came out.

 

Sofie would thrash in his arms, no matter how tired she was and he and Anne had spent months and months to make her stop biting people in fear. Sissi on the other hand remained still and limp when he picked her up and Lestrade noticed how light she was because of it.

 

Sherlock didn't look remotely smug any more as he held the doors open for them. He stayed pale and there was a slight frown on his face plus a forlorn expression that almost made Lestrade think he was actually going to apologize. Sherlock rooted in Lestrade's back pocket for the car keys without complaint and he was so silent Lestrade couldn't bring himself to talk either.

 

There were so many questions running through his head that paying attention to the traffic was hard. What was Sherlock thinking, going out like that? Why did Mycroft think his brother was capable of caring for a person? What on earth happened to the girl while she was lost? The whirlwind of question marks made the journey to Baker Street fly by like nothing.

 

Sissi was asleep by the time they parked, lulled by the movement of the car and the relative quiet. Lestrade carefully picked her up again and tried not to draw the lines between her and Sofie and how many times he had done this exact thing for his daughter. Sherlock followed him up the stairs into the bedroom and then whirled out after dropping something red from his coat pocket beside the pillow before Lestrade even had the time to set her down on the bed. His fingers dwelled over the buttons of one of Sherlock's  purple shirts and he just had the time to wonder if it was appropriate if he undressed her before Mrs. Hudson saved him from damnation. 'Oh dear, Inspector, let me. You must be so tired, go home and rest.' He went and didn't rest, memories of Sofie haunting him the entire night.

 

* * *

 

Sally knew something was up when Lestrade came in late with more tired eyes than usual. She was sure that if she came too close to him she might smell whiskey on his breath. The inspector didn't drink much, she knew, so it must have been bad. He drank a pint of beer in company, sometimes even wine at parties, but this wasn't the look of someone who drank a little too much in company. This was the look of someone who had drowned his sorrows in any kind of alcohol close. It set Sally’s teeth on edge because Greg didn't do that, even after the bad cases when the whole team collectively went to the pub and got drunk enough to not see horrifying imagery flash every time they closed their eyes.

 

'Morning, Sir,' she smiled.

 

He grimaced at her, rubbing at his forehead. 'Oh come off it Sally, I know you well enough to see when you're putting it on.'

 

That surprised her, normally he played along. He could act cheerful in front of anyone if he had cause enough. It was a ritual that they acted like their day had begun marvellously, even if it hadn't, just to be able to face any further doom and gloom that would certainly cross their paths past 10 in the morning. She followed him into his office and carefully closed the door behind her. Waited patiently until he had shed his coat and sat down behind his desk and then pounced. 'So, what happened last night?'

 

Lestrade groaned at her and then put his head on the desk in a careful way that said he had a blooming headache. 'Sherlock happened. And don't you have anything better to do than interrogate me?' He was mumbling a bit, but Sally felt eager enough that she understood every word. Lestrade lifted his head again after finding it didn't actually alleviate the stabs of pain his head was going through. 'Sherlock took his civvie and dragged her...'

 

Sally couldn't help herself, she interrupted. 'Sissi, her name is Sissi.'

 

He looked like someone had stabbed him in the chest at that. 'Sherlock took Sissi, dragged her half across London and then managed to lose her after he had dashed off somewhere.'

 

Sally had to take a few seconds to process that. 'He did WHAT?!'

 

'Yes, that was my initial thought as well,' he murmured. 'Found her in the park nearby, just as someone...' He didn't finish the sentence, but she got the picture clearly enough.

 

'I'm going to kill him.'

 

Lestrade actually cheered at that, though his smile was mildly terrifying.

 

'Please abuse him a bit from me, I didn't get the chance much yesterday.' The expression didn't last very long though and Sally watched his face crumble again. 'Oh god Sally, she looked just like Sofie, she acted just like her.'

 

Sally felt her stomach drop. He didn't talk about his wife any more and his daughter was taboo even when his marriage wasn't a hot mess. She didn't know what to do, he didn't look like he wanted comfort or pity, but she couldn't stand seeing him like this. Sally walked to the door, feeling distinctly helpless. 'I'll handle the paperwork today.'

 

She tried to distract herself, the paperwork helped. There was always mountains of it and they never got smaller. Every time she knocked on Lestrade’s door though, her anger spiked. Sometimes he had his head on the desk, once it looked like he had actually been crying. That sent her completely over the edge. Most of the team had been giving her sideways glances all morning and she had smiled in response and that was that. Now though, she saw her fingers tremble with rage and people were actually backing away when they saw her coming, so the expression on her face must be extra thunderous.

 

And then the Freak came waltzing in like he owned the place. She was walking into the office from the copy room and heard him ask the secretary. 'Where's Lestrade?' He was pointed to the office and suddenly Sally was seeing red. She was at the office door in seconds and blocked his way.

 

'Oh no you fucking don't, you've done enough damage you..you..' Her mind was racing, looking frantically for words that could make the perpetually smug expression fall of his face, that could make him hurt. Make him feel what Greg was feeling now. Make him cry. 'You idiot, incompetent arsehole, you fucking amateur!' Sally found herself holding the lapels of his coat in her hands and Sherlock’s face suddenly closer. 'This is your fault! You're a rank airhead, a...a thoughtless peacock who can't think his way out of a paper bag!'

 

Sherlock looked surprised for a split-second and then he went full-on indignant. Her hands were ripped off his coat and he drew up to full height with an impressive sneer on his face. 'My fault? It's not my fault that you people...' He never got to finish his sentence because Sally’s fist hit him full on the nose.

 

There were several gasps from the room and Sherlock had a look of shock on his face as his hands flew to his face to check the flow of blood. Good. Sally geared up for another shot. But now there were hands on her  arms and someone was trying to drag her away from Sherlock. 'Sally,' Anderson murmured in what he must have thought of as soothing tones. She completely ignored him and tried to grab Sherlock’s coat again.

 

'You don't fucking deserve them, Freak,' she spat. 'They're nice to you and they shouldn't be because you don't fucking deserve anything. Don't you go ANYWHERE NEAR THEM.'

 

There were more hands on her now and she couldn't fight them any longer. Sherlock looked pale, still shocked, and she thought she saw hurt in his eyes. Even better. She didn't see him refuse any help with his bleeding nose and stomp out of the station, but she didn't need to. It felt glorious and Sally basked in the feeling of having given the Freak what he deserved. Lestrade poked his head out of his office and frowned at her, but she was sure it was for show. His lips wouldn't be twitching if he was really angry.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock was seething. Absolutely furious. His eyes watered and his feet were walking of their own accord so he could think. Not that there was a whole lot of thinking going on. His mind had gone blissfully still, no thoughts and so much feeling he didn't feel at all. Just Sally's words going round and round and making him see stars. It wasn't true, it wasn't, it couldn't be. It wasn't his fault. It wasn't. _Oh Sherlock,_ said mind-Mycroft in his sultry tones. _Stop making excuses._ It was like a blow to the stomach, even worse than the feeling of his nose breaking. Sherlock felt his knees buckling.

 

'Oi mate, are you alright?' A concerned Londoner was peering down at him and Sherlock found himself on his knees on the pavement. 'I..Uh.' Brilliant, very intelligent.

 

'Had a domestic, then?' Sherlock could only nod dumbly and blink the tears out of his eyes. 'Don't worry, buddy, we'll get you to an A&E.' He could hear the man flag a taxi and then come back to gently help him up. A part of Sherlock wanted to tell the man he was fine and nothing was wrong but the rest of him disagreed.  So he got into the taxi and even managed to thank the man for his help. The cabbie looked at him in sympathy, Sherlock sneered back. He was promptly delivered at the A&E and the man even waived the fare. He must look absolutely pitiful. The nurse gave him a pitying look as well when she sat him down in the thankfully quiet wait room.

 

The doctor was female and young and Sherlock had to resist deducing all of her silly secrets. It wouldn't set his nose faster if she ran away, after all. So he only growled at her when she came at him with a syringe. 'Just bloody set it!' She startled but she must have had more Emergency Room work under her belt because she didn't back off. 'It will hurt.'

 

Sherlock hissed with frustration. ' I know, just fucking set it.' She set it. It hurt. A lot. _You deserve it._

 

He was out again after less than 10 minutes, his nose only lightly dressed. The lessened pain made his thoughts even more piercing. Sally kept shouting at him and he couldn't make it stop. 'This is your fault! This is your fault! You don't deserve anything!' Sherlock wanted to clamp his hands over his ears and scream, but he couldn't because there were people around. His feet were on automatic again and he couldn't keep up with where they were bringing him. Every single word echoed around him and within seconds it was unbearable agony. He had to do something, something to make it stop. This couldn't be happening again.

 

Sherlock stopped walking at some point and suddenly realised it was quieter around him. Park, it echoed through his head that was suddenly quiet again. 'I don't know what happened, but she almost got raped.' Everything shifted into focus. This wasn't his fault and he would punish the person who was in the wrong. Sherlock, Mycroft admonished. He didn't listen. It wasn't a problem that he didn't know who had attacked Sissi, the tracks would probably still be there and that was enough.

  
  
The team at Scotland Yard was shocked. Shocked, flabbergasted and stunned into silence by the sight that met them. There was blood all over the carpet. That was already pretty strange. Then there was a grinning Sherlock with blood all over his expensive coat. That was just downright scary. And then they saw the puddle that was definitely a person by his feet. The man's clothes were soaked in blood so badly they couldn't even see his injuries. He was mumbling hysterical and incomprehensible words. Sherlock’s grin grew wider at their looks. Some people started looking green and others thanked the heavens for the fact that Sally had gone home, because this would have driven her barking mad. 'You can charge him for assault,' said Sherlock rather calmly before he stalked away.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for attempted suicide and suicidal ideation.

A sleek black car met him on the way out of the Yard and Sherlock felt so amiable that he actually got in instead of pointedly ignoring it. Mycroft looked him over with a mixture of disdain and disappointment. Nothing unusual. 'You know,' said Mycroft. 'I thought you would do something a little more sophisticated, but maybe my expectations were too high.' Sherlock grumbled at him and kept his mouth shut. They were silent the rest of the way to Baker Street. 'Do play nice now, Sherlock,' Mycroft said by way of goodbye. The car door slammed a bit harder than necessary.

 

Of course, Sherlock didn’t play nice. In hindsight, Mycroft should have seen it coming but he had no use for such thoughts. He had made up his mind and would simply let things run their course. That was, until he saw the knife in her hands. At that letting things run their course suddenly became unacceptable. Mycroft knew that there was a big chance she wouldn't actually do anything. Her file had talked at length about avoidance behaviour and suicidal ideation and the reports stated quite clearly they didn't think her at risk. Seeing Sissi handle a kitchen knife in obvious contemplation made his blood run cold nonetheless. He had watched her fall deeper and deeper into depression and it hadn't touched him, but somehow, the sight of steel glinting changed things. The light reflected off it as she twirled it around in her fingers and Mycroft could only sit there, glued to his chair, observing the almost graceful movements.

 

He had seen her prepare dinner, through the CCTV he installed without Sherlock's consent. She was clumsy usually, never seemed to know where she was in relation to the space and objects around her. But when she made dinner, suddenly there was grace and poise, in her own way. Knives were wielded with precision and the dance of pots and pans always came out exactly right. Mycroft knew that her cooking was good. He could see it on Sherlock's face and by the fact that the girl had actually managed to get three meals a day into him.

 

Or really, she had managed to make him clear the table. Maybe that was her biggest achievement. Mycroft supposed he had cleared it in a convoluted apology of some kind. But maybe it was simply because she had his credit card and he was hungry. She had refused to make dinner in their kitchen and simply evacuated to Mrs. Hudson's instead and refused to give Sherlock even a crumb of what she made. It was sort of devious, in a woman’s way. She hadn't opened up about what happened on the evening of her jaunt through London but Mycroft had picked up on some of it. Seeing her running and tripping, seemingly blind and deaf to whatever what happening around her. He felt a stab of recognition at that and he knew for sure that if he showed Sherlock he would as well. They had both run like that, for their own reasons.

 

The knife wasn't put away like he had hoped. He had seen glimpses of it, increasing over the days, but only for seconds, like she lost courage when she laid eyes on it. Not this time. The knife kept going in hypnotic circles.

 

Mycroft was in  a quandary. He wasn’t entirely sure what to do. He knew that letting someone commit suicide in Baker Street would weigh on his conscience something awful, but getting out of his chair was too much work for a goldfish. She was an interesting one, granted. But still only a goldfish. He didn’t want a mess in Baker Street though. But how to prevent it without spending too much energy? Mycroft ticked off the people in his head. Both Sally and Lestrade were delightfully territorial. The pictures of Sherlock's bloody nose were incredible to look at. Mrs. Hudson would be a bad choice though. She would fumble, well-meaning, but it wouldn’t leave an impression or enough pressure.

 

Sherlock would probably give pressure enough, but no reason to listen. Let alone any emotional support. Mycroft tapped this phone against his chin. It would have to be one of the Yard. Lestrade would break, it would be the last straw. So no good. It would have to be the delightful Sally. How to arrange it? He had her number, she didn’t know him. Lestrade would have to be out of the picture.

 

 

* * *

 

Sally got a text from an unknown number. She was on the toilet at the time and it felt like whoever texted did it at that exact moment, simply to annoy her. Being home had helped her anger a lot. The rage had subsided after an hour or two and the adrenaline was gone so she was thinking clearly again. Sally went for her phone. Please come, Sissi. She went, as fast as she could. In hindsight maybe using the siren was overdoing it. But hell, she was in the vicinity of Sherlock, there was no way it wouldn't be a good idea. Sherlock stared at her with fear in his eyes when she stormed up the stairs. He relaxed again when she ran up the second flight, but Sally didn't notice that. She was at the door, opened it and then there was blood filling her vision.

 

It was like someone just pressed the pause button on life. Everything was quiet and still and Sally was alone with her thoughts. She knew the moment she would move everything would start up again. It unnerved her, she had gone through all the training and been on the street for a couple years. It didn't suit her, because of this. In front of her was Sissi though, a girl. A girl hurt, badly. She had to do something. Something. Something fast. The sheets were soaked. She could smell the blood from where she stood. Sissi was lying limply on the bed, the knife still half in her hand. Left-handed. Do something!

 

'SHERLOCK!'

 

She had only managed to reach the bed and fumble with the sheet before he came through the door. The world slowed down again and the only thing she would focus on was the almost comical perfect oval that his mouth made as he surveyed the scene. 'Pressure!' he snapped at her while reaching for his phone and Sally snapped back into action.

 

The sheets were wet and wrong and they would have to do. She tried not to gag as she started putting all her weight on Sissi's wrist. Sherlock was pacing, whiter than when she had attacked him this morning.

 

'Lestrade, ambulance NOW!'

 

His voice just broke, Sally thought numbly. His voice broke. He terminated the call and she could see him entering 999 clearly. 'Attempted Suicide, Baker Street 221B, ambulance, top floor.' Terminated again and suddenly there was only the rush of blood in her ears and Sissi's shallow breathing. She could see Sherlock thinking and found herself rooting for him.

 

'They'll be here in 8 minutes, if we're lucky. Tourniquet's too risky. Can't have her lose a hand. If we get her downstairs though, that will give her a chance.' Sally stared. Sherlock actually looked put out and she wanted to hit him for it. 'I carry her, you keep pressure on that wound.'

 

It felt surreal, walking down the stairs. It was slow and painful and Sally could feel her heart hammering in her chest with every drop of blood that seeped through the cloth. It felt like ages, every step taking a century. Sherlock struggled with the door and Sally almost let go to help him, he growled at her and she realised her mistake. The street was empty, she could hear sirens, but she couldn't figure out if any of them were coming closer. Sissi was shining with sweat and her pupils were so big Sally couldn't make out the colour of her irises any more. Sally found herself mumbling. 'Oh god, oh god, oh god.' It felt like a mantra, it would draw the lights and the sirens and everything would be ok. Nobody would die. Sherlock didn't snap at her, he was stony and silent even with blood-spatters over his face and shirt. Her eyes followed every single one of them. On his collar, near the buttons, on his neck and even on his nose. She giggled, it sounded hysterical even in her own ears. And then the ambulance was there.

 

* * *

 

The insistent beeping of the life support was actually quite soothing in his ears. Usually he would be driven mad, but Sherlock supposed he might just be too shocked. He had examined the whole thing from every possible side and he couldn't figure it out. He knew in the back of his mind that it was somehow his fault. But he couldn't see what he had done or what he could have done differently. He wasn't nice to her, he knew that. John always sighed about how he was rude and unkind. Sherlock didn't see how it would make any kind of difference though.

 

Sally was sleeping on the camp bed the nurses provided. They hadn’t spoken a word to each other, not when they went after the ambulance and not in the waiting room where Sherlock couldn't help but pace and where Sally had to ball her fists to make sure her hands didn't tremble. And not now in a private room, Sherlock had insisted on and gotten without complaint. Apparently the Holmes name didn't just mean something when his brother used it, but also when he did. He never thought about that before, but now it circled around his mind. Wealth, privilege.  Looking at Sally's sleeping face he noticed the colour of her skin for the first time. Soft and cool beige, with a slightly sickly tinge, because of her lack of sleep. He knew he should be dismayed, never having noticed before. Never having noticed before what it meant that her skin was darker than his and what it implied for her life. Footsteps out in the hallway  disrupted his train of thought and he was glad for it, until he noticed that it was his brother’s distinctive tread. Rock and a hard place...

 

Mycroft appeared in the doorway with the usual pomp and flair. 'So brother, will you behave now?' Sherlock sneered at that and then the implications of that statement sink in. He must be tired, his thoughts aren't usually this slow.

 

'You knew!' Mycroft didn’t nod, he didn’t need to. He only set himself neatly on the only other available chair in the room and smiled. Sherlock felt righteous anger bubbling in his veins. 'You knew, and you never said anything. You could have prevented this. Could have told me!' Sally stirred in the corner and he realised he must have shouted somehow.

 

Mycroft wasn’t moved by any of it, of course, if he was it would be too good to be true. 'Brother mine, we both know that wouldn't have changed anything.' It's a low blow, all the more because it's probably true. Sherlock fell silent for a moment, trying to gather his thoughts.

 

Mycroft smirked at Sally who was now blinking sleep out of her eyes. Another piece of the puzzle clicked. He didn't waste angry words on this bit though, he could see how Mycroft's mind must have worked when he decided. Maximum impact for minimum energy. It worked well enough. He would have ignored a call from Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson would have been too incompetent to deal with it. Lestrade was an option but the man was too far away and Mycroft would have surely waited until the last possible moment. That sent shivers over Sherlock’s spine for a moment. Mycroft would have waited long enough for her to actually do something. Suddenly, it all looked a lot more urgent than it felt at that moment. Sally was darting questioning looks at both of them, he could see her head moving out of the corners of his eyes.

 

'Give me the file.' It wasn’t a request, Sherlock doesn't want anyone to die. He might be stupid and rude and unkind but he won't be responsible for any innocent person’s death. The file was conjured up out of an inner pocket and laid down on the covers. Sherlock didn’t reach for it, wanting to prolong his ignorance for a little longer. He didn’t want to know what he missed, what he should have seen. Mycroft got up and left without another word.

 

Sally cast him puzzled looks, but she didn’t open her mouth to spout hostile questions. They had reached a truce of sorts, ceasing of hostilities, lasting as long as Sissi was pale and unresponsive. He let his fingers slowly move to the file and then pull it inch by inch towards him. Delaying the inevitable. Delaying seeing his mistakes on paper, in black and white. The things he missed and the things he made worse.

 

The file was in his hands now, cardstock with a crease in it, from being in Mycroft's jacket. The pages were slightly sullied, Mycroft must have had them open on his desk for quite a while, ruminating on the contents of it. Marloes van Dijk, the letters stated. Age 21. That was safe, safe words that won't draw guilt and pain and caring. The rest wasn’t safe, Sherlock read it anyway.

 

Bullied through her school career.

 

_Sherlock starting into her when she asks for food. Sherlock mocking her when she tells him she can't go to the shop._

 

Intelligent with severe fear of failure.

 

_Sherlock snarling about idiots when she asks about his case. Shouting at her for reading his books and changing the position of papers on the table. Acidic words when she drops a ladle when making food and scathing ones when whatever he wanted her to do wasn't done exactly right._

 

Manipulated and neglected by parents. Possible abuse.

 

_Sissi looking tense and scared when she asks about the money deposited in her account. Sherlock dismissive and angry when she keeps going on about it. Sissi shrinking away with every angry word out of his mouth. Flinching at shouts and sudden noises._

Autistic, depressed. Anxiety disorder and suicidal ideation. _Oh god._

 

'Are you alright, sir?' There was a nurse peering at him and Sherlock had to blink a few times before he could make her out clearly. He must have fallen asleep at some point, the file now on the floor and his neck painfully stiff. 'Yes, I'm fine,' he ground out. He must look badly because the nurse didn’t look very convinced. All pursed lips and the barest of frowns. She let it slide with a hint of an eye-roll and Sherlock felt grateful for it. Sally was still sleeping, he forgot about her in the haze of guilt that enveloped him. It wasn't like the times before. No endless thoughts going through his mind, no repetitions of words spoken by others. It was quiet and filled with the realisation that he had been so incredibly stupid.

 

'We'll be waking her up soon, she's stable and there's no problems with her blood pressure.' Sherlock looked out of the window at that, the orange glow of London was slowly giving away to the paleness of dawn. The nurse went about her business, not expecting him to speak. Sally murmured in her sleep and moved as if waking, but she didn't. He was glad for the reprieve, he never felt so unsure and unbalanced in his life. He didn't know what to do, what the best course of action be from here on out. Mycroft wasn't moving her, he understood that quite clearly. If he had the girl’s well being in mind she would never even have stayed on Baker Street for longer than a day. He had ulterior motives, Sherlock was sure of it. But he couldn't see what. Couldn't take the data and form it into neat cohesive facts and truths. That seemed a painful constant these days. Cases he would solve quickly and neatly as always, but somehow Moriarty completely eluded him. None of his informants had any useful information for him. Some kept their mouths shut tightly out of fear. Others had suddenly disappeared and Sherlock was sure the consulting criminal must have been responsible. But he had no proof and no data. And he couldn't ignore thinking about his mistakes any longer.

 

He knew what Mycroft wanted, Mycroft wanted him changed and different and good. No longer a blunt instrument. And this girl was the key in his lock. Sherlock didn't doubt that Mycroft had picked right. He could see his brother at his desk poring over files, head bowed in thought. But he didn't want to change, didn't want to be good. He wanted none of that, never. It wouldn't happen. But he couldn't do nothing either. The file didn't need to say it. She had thought about it, maybe even planned it. Never done it, until now. And she would do it again, Sherlock was sure. He would have to do something. He couldn't care. Caring was wrong and painful and impossible. But he could stop bullying and ignoring and hurting. He would try, at least, because it wasn't fair to her. It wasn't her fault that she was tied up now, a pawn in a chess match between people who viewed humans as accessories and unimportant. Sherlock didn't, he never could. He would put the feelings away, delete them every time a case came around and only cold hard thought could save lives. They always came back in the interim, putting them away entirely would be bad. It would make him like Moriarty, Sherlock knew that with absolute certainty. It would make him like Mycroft, who probably wouldn't even admit he was heartless, even though he was. Sherlock didn't want to be heartless.

 

He didn't apologize, he found that he couldn't. His thoughts briefly touched that idea and then put it away just as fast. He hadn't been wrong, not really. Just unobservant and he certainly wasn't going to apologize for something most of the goldfish were. He would just be nicer. That would have to do. She would have to be grateful for that. She better be grateful for it.

 

 

* * *

 

'Oh god, we need to do something about this, you offend the eyes.' The moment the words were out of his mouth Sherlock felt keenly that he might have been a bit too rude. He could see Sissi deflating like a balloon and suddenly looking a lot more insecure. She had been released from the hospital a few days ago and he could see her wilting away again before his eyes.

He didn't really know what to say so he surveyed her hodgepodge of clothes again. She was still wearing his shirts, this one was a dark grey, with one of Mrs. Hudson's cardigans and and her only surviving skirt. It was rather crumpled, but he had to admire her skills regardless. It was sitting neatly at the waist and it fell past her knees. Meant she was probably very insecure when it came to her body. She had to be, in what she was wearing now. It made her look plump and much like a slob without any shape at all. It simply wouldn't do.

 

Clothes made a person and these clothes were just unmaking her. 'Right, lets go!' Sissi looked at him with apprehension in her eyes and Sherlock felt he had to explain before she died of fright. 'We're getting you proper clothing to wear. You've been wearing Mrs. Hudson's underwear, it's simply ridiculous!' There was a blush starting on her cheeks, but she was smiling slightly. 'Yes I suppose so, but I wouldn't know where to get clothes in London.' Sherlock smirked at her. 'I do.'

 

If Sherlock was honest with himself, he picked the underwear store simply because the waiting area was pleasant. But the sickly feeling of guilt he was carrying in his stomach since that night was fading a little bit every time he heard Sissi laugh at something the shop assistant said. There was some major giggling about bras for a reason Sherlock didn't entirely understand, but Sissi looked rather happy with the selection of underwear she and the shop assistant had made. Sherlock had to keep his eyebrows under control at the fact that there were no bras anywhere in sight, simply colourful underwear and camis. Sherlock handed his card over with a smile and Sissi gaped at him for a few seconds before her mouth snapped shut. 'Thank you,' she said and it sounded remarkably heartfelt.

 

He could take one thing off his list now but this hadn't solved the problem of the hideous clothing mix that she was wearing. Sherlock had a rudimentary knowledge of clothing, he needed it for his work after all. But while he could accurately deduce the price tag of most clothes and sometimes the designer, he was rather stumped as where to get them. He couldn't walk to his usual tailor, that would be a recipe for embarrassment on both sides. So he really only had one option.

 

'Mother? It's Sherlock, I was wondering, could you direct me to your usual dressmaker?' He had to hold his mobile away from his ear for a few seconds to withstand the squealing coming from the other side of the line. 'Sherlock! Dear, have you finally found one!' Sissi snorted at the put out expression on his face. 'No mother, simply doing someone a favour. Now please, I have other things to do.' His mother still sounded too excited and Sherlock privately wondered if he had just made a rather big mistake. 'It depends on what she needs, darling. Kathryn Sargent makes lovely coats and suits. Carol Alayne does the rest for me.' 'Thank you, Mummy.'

 

Sissi was staring at him by the time he put his phone away. Sherlock didn't have to say anything, she responded to his nonverbal 'What?' all by herself. 'Are you taking me to a dressmaker?' she was slightly awestruck and unbelieving. That made Sherlock believe that his idea was a good one. 'Yes and you better accept it without a word.' She did.

 

Sherlock found the whole experience was another lesson to drive the definition of privilege home. He felt it was imprinted on the inside of his head, with how much he had thought about it the past few weeks. It seemed to jump out at him from every single corner. Even in the way the people in the shop instantly looked at him instead of the girl at his side and the way he called the shots without something else ever being presumed. It suited him fine at this occasion, he was paying after all. Sissi seemed to have taken the order to accept it all without a word rather seriously. The Holmes name made people's faces brighten and the request for a whole wardrobe even more. The fact that appointments should be made in advance completely forgotten. Even the fact that they were asked to put a rush on things (for a higher price of course) didn't seem to faze anyone. Sherlock went home with the knowledge that he would only have to spend time around Sissi in a lump of misshapen clothing for a little longer.

 

The afternoon found her reading on the sofa, with a very grumpy Mycroft in one of the chairs. Sherlock dashed out of the door feeling rather accomplished. His brother had made his bed and now had to lie in it. He had made clear that he thought Moriarty had it out for Sissi in some way and that Sherlock wasn't to leave her side even one second. So now Sherlock was waltzing around London, breathing in the air without a redhead following him like a shadow for once. And Mycroft had to endure how horribly boring Sissi was, sitting on the sofa with her headphones, reading and not moving for hours.

 

He was surprised to come back to Sissi and Mycroft having a conversation, on literature if he deduced correctly from the few words he heard through the door before he opened it. Mycroft fell silent in the middle of his sentence and his face snapped back to a disgruntled mask before Sherlock even had a foot inside the apartment. 'Brother dear,' he greeted with the usual mix of ice and disappointment in his voice. Sherlock sneered at that and kept his mouth shut. He dumped 2 bags full of clothing in front of the sofa and stomped to his room. The door slammed so hard that it almost fell open again.

  


Sissi had a look of surprise and shock on her face. Mycroft felt he had to enlighten her a bit to the workings of his brothers mind. 'Don't mind him, dear, he simply wanted me to have a miserable afternoon. Instead, it was quite delightful. I would enjoy doing it again. Good day.' Mycroft was out the door before Sissi could reply. Her expression changed from simply surprised to utterly dumbstruck.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Mrs. Hudson came bustling into the flat with a tray of tea and biscuits not long after that. She smiled as seeing Sissi's expression. 'Don't try to understand it dear, it doesn't work.' Sissi numbly took a cup of tea and a biscuit from her. 'Now, Sherlock said he would get you clothing to wear before your actual clothing arrives. I can't wait to see what he picked, you deserve something nice.'

 

Sissi barely heard her. 'I think I just got asked out by Mycroft Holmes.'

 

Mrs. Hudson paused her perusal of the bags for a second and sighed. 'Those boys will always try to outdo each other, don't mind them dear. Simply sibling rivalry.'

 

Sherlock had picked nice clothing. If nice was an adjective that describes how much something has cost. Sissi wasn't sure if she would ever have the nerve to wear those things. It all looked nice and he must have known about her aversion to synthetics, because it was all natural fabrics but it looked so posh. So sophisticated that she was sure she would look like an imposter in them. She studiously ignored the price tags so she wouldn't have a heart attack and die of guilt. His words in the morning had promised no good, but she was sure that if she had protested that he would have turned her out on the street naked as day. She could feel the anxiety bubbling up from her stomach, making her feel lighter and lighter until she could float away as though there was helium in her veins. If she refused the clothes, he would be angry and if she took them he would have something to hold over her head. She was already trapped, the lady in the stylish black clothing had already spelled that out for her clearly. She was stuck with Sherlock now and the lady had remarked that going out with Sherlock never ended well. She didn't want to give in, didn't want to be so vulnerable. Didn't want to hope that maybe these people would be nice to her, actually nice, no hidden agenda, no sudden change of heart. Just nice. She was sure the fall was coming any moment now.

 

Sissi tried to forget about the strangeness that was the Holmes brothers and for being in close proximity to one of them, she felt she was managing rather well. Sherlock's mood was better the next day and he looked at her with appraising eyes that made Sissi want to slink away and disappear, but he only smiled one of his forced smiles and nodded in what looked like approval. They settled into the routine they had before the hospital, with the blissful absence of Sherlock's usual snark and mockery. It was unnerving Sissi at first; she waited two whole days for the first outburst. It didn't come, but he seemed to pick up on her uneasiness. And when her hands trembled so much she couldn't pick up the spoon she dropped on the floor, Sherlock was suddenly beside her.

He looked unusually solemn, staring at her with big wide eyes.

 

'I won't hurt you,' it was spoken so softly that she had to strain to hear. It didn't look like he expected an answer, so she picked up the spoon and turned back to her cooking. Sherlock was still standing beside her, looking like a statue for how unmoving he was. It was distracting and apparently an answer was expected because she had never in the few weeks that she knew Sherlock seen him do something like that. He would be quiet and still all day, but with an occupation, not simply standing staring at nothing. Staring at you. She tried to figure out what he was waiting for and came up blank. She didn't know if it was a good idea, but the truth seemed the best option. 'I don't think I believe that.' Sherlock gave no indication he had heard what she said, but he moved away after long seconds and sat in his chair again.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Mycroft was standing in the sitting room when Sissi came down a few days later, her hair still wet from washing. He greeted her with a smile and the words: 'You have your first fitting in an hour, there's breakfast in the car.' She cast a glance around the apartment for Sherlock, unsure what to do. She thought she was spending the day on the sofa, reading her book and maybe chatting with Mrs. Hudson, but apparently plans had changed. Sherlock was no-where in sight, so she retrieved her bag and walked after Mycroft. The car was downright luxurious and it made her feel slightly out of place. The lady from the first night was there, typing away on her phone. She barely looked up, simply smiled vaguely at Sissi. Mycroft sat opposite her and before Sissi could regret her decision the car set in motion.

 

'I thought you would enjoy spending the day outside of that dreadful place,' Mycroft began, his tone pleasant and agreeable. It sounded incredibly different from their afternoon at Baker Street and Sissi felt this had to be his Older Brother persona. He had to have a myriad of them, all coming out at will, when the situation required it. Sherlock was a complex person, layers upon layers, but she thought Mycroft had to be even more complex even though he was vastly more pleasant than Sherlock.

 

'We'll drop you off at the dressmaker and it seems like the afternoon will be pleasant enough for the park.' It almost sounded like Sissi could disagree with his ideas but there was a subtle air in the car that made her feel otherwise. The assistant was staring at her boss with slight wonder in her eyes. It was only until after Sissi had stepped out in Mayfair in front of the stately building that housed the dressmaker that Anthea spoke. 'Are you sure this is a good idea, sir?'  she sounded almost reproachful.

 

Mycroft smiled his good-natured smile at her. 'Allison, when have I ever done something unwise?'

 

The afternoon was indeed pleasant. In fact, Sissi found it more than pleasant. The clouds that were hanging in the sky in the morning had completely disappeared now and the sun was shining like it was summer. The park was entirely empty apart from a distant walker or two. Sissi was sure she had spotted a man in uniform though, out of the way and like a ghost. The trees were casting dappled shadows over the grass and the blanket Sissi was sitting on. The car had delivered her at the edge of the park, so she had wandered around until she found the blanket with a basket set on it in the shade. There was a note on top of it, proclaiming that Mister Holmes would be arriving soon. It all suited Sissi just fine, it was already marvellous to be outside. She wasn't used to the city, to being cooped up in an apartment and all the noises. She was used to wide open spaces and wind on her face. To the simple sounds of nature without a person in sight. The park didn't come close, but it was a lovely place to be even without company. There was a book in the basket, the cover shining with newness and the sticker neatly removed. Sissi grinned when she saw the title and started reading.

 

When Sissi looked up Mycroft was looming over her. He had a smile on his face that looked honest to her and a briefcase instead of his umbrella in his hand. He sat down on the blanket beside her and flashed her another smile. 'I would have taken you to the club, but I'm afraid women aren't allowed.'  

 

Sissi blinked at him and tried to overcome her incredulity. 'Are you serious?' Mycroft seemed to be holding in an eye roll and nodded. Sissi looked down at her book to gather her thoughts for a second and then started laughing. She got a delicately raised eyebrow for her troubles. 'Sorry, I was just wondering what Granny would have said to that.'

 

Mycroft didn't answer, he was taking a laptop out of his briefcase and seemed entirely enveloped in the contents. Before Sissi could return to her book he spoke again. 'I think she would give all the silly old men a heart attack, good riddance that would be.' He was looking into the basket now, going through methodically and pleased with the results. Sissi was offered a sandwich and she gladly took it. Mycroft looked at his own in contemplation. 'It's rather ironic, that when I expect a quiet afternoon to spend at my leisure, an international crisis appears. Thankfully, I can deal with it here, in the sunshine, rather than around bumbling fools.' Sissi wondered what version of Mycroft she was dealing with and if anyone ever saw the real person behind it all. She couldn't think of a single thing to respond with so she simply nodded and kept quiet. The rest of the afternoon was spent quietly. Mycroft engrossed in  his laptop and Sissi by her book.

 

Sherlock was positively spitting when Mycroft brought her back to the flat. And it probably wasn’t out of worry, even though it was dark and cold out. She had never expected the hours could pass so quickly, or that Mycroft would enjoy her company enough to take her out to dinner.  She could feel it before they even stepped through the door. Mrs. Hudson had a frown on her face in the seconds before she recognised Sissi, though the smile that came through was bright and happy. 'Oh dear, Sherlock chose well, didn't he? She looks absolutely radiant, doesn't she Mycroft?'

 

Mycroft murmured something that could be taken for assent and gave Mrs. Hudson a smile that was more like a grimace. Sissi had the feeling he was distinctly uncomfortable even though there was a door between them and his brother. He let go of her arm and took a step away, clearly gearing up to leave. She found herself speechless. How to say goodbye now? It hadn't been a date, god forbid, but they weren't exactly friends. She knew next to nothing about Mycroft, except that he had a job that required him to work 24/7 and that he had a love for Terry Pratchett. Mycroft did not have the same dilemma apparently. He nodded at her and have her the same grimace he gave Mrs. Hudson. 'It was a pleasure, good night.'

 

Sissi found herself in the same state of confusion as the first time Mycroft had abruptly taken his leave. Mrs. Hudson wasn't smiling any more. Sissi could feel the contentment she had managed to hold onto slipping through her fingers until there was only unease left over. 'Why do they always have to be so...so...' She didn't even have words for it.

 

Mrs. Hudson sighed. 'Well, don't mind him dear. You look as lovely as your day must have been. You'll have to tell me everything about the dressmaker later.' She disappeared into her own flat and Sissi had no other option than to go and face Sherlock.

 

Sherlock's face spelled a sure thunderstorm, but he only looked her over and then went on typing on his laptop. Sissi supposed that meant there was no retribution coming for the fact that she had spent her day with Mycroft and she suddenly felt tired. She didn't have any energy left to deal with Sherlock's mood, to try and decipher it and hope she did and said the right things. Both he and Mycroft provided a mystery that intrigued and repulsed her at the same time. She wanted to understand what they meant, how they worked, but the simple fact that she didn't was incredibly unnerving. She simply wanted out, away from the confusion and constant guessing. But Anthea -Mycroft had finally provided a name for his lovely assistant- had spelled out that leaving for home and even leaving the proximity of Sherlock Holmes would mean certain death. It sounded so ridiculous that Sissi laughed when she heard it, but Anthea seemed entirely serious. Pleas for an explanation went unheard however and Sissi still couldn't suppress the feeling it was a rather convoluted joke someone was playing on her. She tried to shake the thought, but seeing Sherlock sitting there with a frightening expression of rage on his face did nothing to dispel the idea. It was a weird joke, retribution for whatever she had done now. She probably deserved it too.

 

She spend some time staring at Sherlock, wondering what he would say if she asked about it. She had no trouble imagining the sneer on his face. It almost made her cry simply to think about it. Right, if she was almost in tears over something that wasn't happening, it was time to go to bed. She’d had a lovely day, even if the restaurant had been so posh she felt distinctly out of place. She would feel better in the morning. Sissi dreamed of Holmes smiles and their different meanings.

 

* * *

 

The morning was indeed better. Sherlock hadn't moved a muscle but he didn't look so angry now even with the frown his screen was getting. She tried not to give in and ask questions, but it was unbearable. She had no idea how the normal Sherlock was but Mrs. Hudson had let slip that he was being incredibly contrary. She had whispered like it was a secret that he still wasn't over John. Sissi thought that between the way she was told and Sherlock’s behaviour she better not ask him. At least her parents had taught her that, if by experience. How to figure out the topics to avoid. She kept wondering all morning and trying to dissuade herself at the same time. She wanted to know what he was doing, because maybe she could help. But experience told that he reacted badly to questions and inquiries if he needed help. By the time lunch had passed she was so obsessed it slipped out of her anyway.

 

'What are you working on?' She could see Sherlock's expression changing, going from the blank mask it was before to surprise and she could see indignation seeping into his features. Sissi felt like someone had dumped a bucket of ice water over her head. Suddenly it was hard to breathe and every thought that had been going through her mind ground to a halt. She could see every twitch of muscle in his face and she waited  for cold and angry words to engulf her.

 

They didn't come and with every second that passed Sissi calmed down a little more. If he was going to explode about her question, he would have done so, he would have been shouting already. Instead his face slowly became softer, his eyes widening in what didn't look like surprise, but rather pity or kindness. Like he had been tethering on the edge of anger and suddenly switched tracks. Sherlock straightened out of his hunch in front his laptop and dragged a chair towards him. Sissi couldn't keep up for a second. Was he actually inviting her to sit next to him? Was he opening up to her, the stranger in his house about what was going on? Part of her wanted to refuse, to smile and tell him to ignore her, but she couldn't. Her curiosity had been piqued the moment the shock had passed. After her voice of reason had stopped screaming to her to get away from the twat and leave, not matter what mysterious assistants might say, really the only thing that was left was intrigue and wonder. Sherlock was fascinating, despite his manners. Even through the haze of depression she couldn't stop thinking about what his life was like, what made him like this and what on earth was making him go crazy. And now she had a chance to find out more. Maybe now he would stop being such a frustrating bundle of reactions and actions and actually become a person for her that she could get to know and understand. Sissi was in the other chair in seconds.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock tried to ignore the pleasant feeling that was spreading through his limbs. He finally had someone to listen to him again, to offer remarks and ideas, however stupid, that might move him along. Someone that might turn this frustrating mess of incompatible data into something he could actually work with. He missed John at moments like this. John helped him even if John never felt like that. John helped him look at his own deductions in a different way, open his mind to other options and he needed that now. Moriarty was evading him, every time he thought he had a lead or more information that would lead them straight to him, the lead was useless and the information outdated or wrong. He could hear the man laughing at him, laughing about his incompetence, laughing about the wild, almost panicked, goose chase Sherlock was on. Giggling about his own superiority. Sherlock wanted the pleasure of wringing his goddamn neck and watching his eyes fill with fear. He wanted to bring Moriarty down as hard as he could, wanted him off the streets and living a miserable life in the most horrible prison Sherlock could find for him. Human rights be damned, the man deserved torture and misery for the rest of his life. Sherlock had to shake himself out of his tangent. He had an audience now, he couldn't afford spacing out and looking like an idiot any more.

 

Sherlock felt lost for a moment, he finally had someone to talk to and he didn't even know what to say. How to explain what Moriarty was, what the man did that was so horrible. Sissi didn't even know what he did. She had no idea, no clue whatsoever. Sherlock took a deep breath and decided it was best to simply start at the beginning. The laptop was closed and Sherlock tried to relax, he was slightly nervous. Usually people would be introduced to his skills because he used them on said people. That meant they were either repulsed or fascinated and that suited Sherlock fine. Explaining it was an entirely different matter.

  
'I am a consulting detective,' he started unusually unsure of his words. 'I solve crimes that baffle the police. Moriarty is the person who tried to kill you and he has me baffled. He's the spider in a web full of criminals. Spinning plans and ensnaring anyone he can in them.' It sounded so terribly inadequate to explain all the things going on right now. It didn't explain John, it didn't explain the pool. It didn't explain his fear and rage. Not the way he was alienating everyone around him in his frenzy. It really didn't explain anything at all, but Sissi looked understanding.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently, the linebreaks no longer work, so apologies for the messiness.

When Sherlock came to his senses again he was on a chair. Before him was a very luxurious media set up, high-end speakers with a TV screen spanning almost the entire wall. Sherlock tried not to get engulfed in deductions about the room, struggling against what his senses were telling him. He was bound to the chair securely, his ankles and knees tied to the posts. His arms were resting on the armrests and secured at the wrist and elbow. It looked like it was done by someone who knew what they were doing. The rope was smooth and almost silky and his upper body was entirely free, but he wouldn't be able to escape his restraints. He wouldn't even be able to hop away in the chair due to his limited range of motion. Sherlock could feel panic setting in and right at that moment someone stepped into the room. He seized onto the distraction, knowing that staying calm was important. Staying calm became incredibly hard the moment he could place her face. Adler. She was wearing a tasteful but comfortable dress. It looked like her version of comfortable pyjamas. She had a full face of make-up on and a smile on her face that gave Sherlock shivers of foreboding. 

 

'Oh Mister Holmes, how lovely to see you here.' Sherlock found he had to swallow bile from his mouth. She had caught him unawares so badly that he was now strapped into a chair with no chance of escape. Mind Mycroft was telling him to be very very careful and Sherlock felt he had better heed that advice. 

 

'Good day, Ms. Adler.' he answered, trying his best to keep his voice normal, as if they had just passed on the street. He saw she had a riding crop in her hands and he couldn't help but focus on it. Her smile turned predatory. 'Lovely day for a ride, don't you think Sherlock?' It sounded like an innocent question, but Sherlock felt his blood turn cold. Before he could even think about what she meant the TV suddenly flared into life. It showed the sky through a leafy canopy of trees, but Sherlock knew in his bones that this wasn't nearly so innocent. Moriarty's voice coming from the speakers only confirmed it.

 

'Good morning, Sherlock!' The fake joviality made Sherlock want to vomit. 'What a lovely amazon you have found. She must be delightful.' The image suddenly swivelled to show a well-trodden path. There was a figure coming down it towards them, on horseback and at a canter. Sherlock knew who it was even before he saw the flash of red hair. He suppressed the urge to groan and tried to turn towards Irene. She was standing beside him in such a way he had to crane his neck to see her.

 

'What do you want?' 

 

She only smiled at him, ticking the riding whip against her hip. 'We just want you to watch the spectacle.' Sherlock's heart sank at that, they didn't want anything, he didn't have even the slightest bit of leverage. No way to make it stop. And no way to save Sissi from Moriarty's demented game, it would no doubt involve explosives. He could only watch as Sissi came closer and closer. She must have felt something was wrong because she halted and looked around, the horse shuffling his feet under her in obvious discomfort.

 

'What do you think, shall we test her skills?' Sherlock tried not to imagine what the test might be.

 

-

 

Sissi was sure something was fishy the moment the horse had started speeding up, his previously smooth strides getting choppier. It made her feel nervous even with the reassurance of the owner that it was absolutely bombproof and she would be fine. The sound of a car coming up behind her startled her more than the horse. The man on the roof pointing a gun at her didn't startle her, simply because she had no idea how to react. The message was clear, she wasn't to turn back or she would get a bullet in her head. She tried to squash the panic bubbling up and failed miserably.

 

_Right now, freezing up will only get you killed, get a move on and calm down._ Sissi wondered when her inner voice of reason had begun talking in Sherlock’s silken tones. He was right, if she panicked now the would get killed anyway. It felt utterly surreal, bullets and guns didn't happen to normal people, but it was happening to her. She took a deep breath and set her horse in motion again. He was jittery, no doubt picking up on her nerves and the strangeness of the situation. She resisted the urge to push it to a gallop, to get away from the gun as fast as she could. 

 

-

 

Sherlock felt absurdly cheated. He had been set up, set up and tumbled right into it. And now he was watching Sissi make her way down the path, panic showing in every line of her body, he could see her hands clenching the reins even with the camera so far away. He would no doubt see her get tortured, though that was probably the best case scenario. Torture in Ultra-HD, it was almost funny, in a decidedly hysterical way. It took only minutes but it felt like ages until the path widened into an arena. Sherlock snapped into deductions. The ground looked freshly disturbed and while the posts of the fence outlining the arena looked weathered the jumps didn't. Sherlock knew that Moriarty had orchestrated this for him.  But instead of him being at risk, someone else was risking their life. For a few seconds Sherlock entertained the hope that someone would know something was wrong and come to their rescue. It got discarded quickly. The ride Sissi was on was planned and even though someone was trailing her, she wasn't expected back for some time. He had foolishly gone in search of Irene without informing anyone. It was a rather stupid idea in hindsight. Of course, that didn't magically make everything alright. Sherlock had deleted most of his knowledge about horse sports, but he did see that the jumps in the arena looked off. 

 

They were solid, all of them. A weird mix between posts, solid tree trunks and what looked to Sherlock like the traditional way jumps had to be set up. The strange shapes made Sherlock feel like it might be a dream, something his subconscious had cooked up to punish him. 

 

Irene's delighted giggle pulled him out of his maelstrom of thoughts. 'Oh, Jim was right, she looks absolutely delicious. Did you pick that outfit, Sherlock?' She walked towards the screen, tracing Sissi's outline on it with her whip. 'Ooh, but she looks scared...' 

 

Sherlock did his best to shut her out of his mind, but he couldn't. Sissi did look scared, even though he couldn't see her face. The camera was already moving to rectify that. Sissi had halted just inside the arena and she was looking around in obvious panic. Her horse was standing still though, apparently not bothered this time by his rider’s nervousness. Someone behind her closed the gates and then the camera had turned enough that Sherlock could see her face. Her face was drawn and her eyes shone with fear, her hands were clenching and unclenching in a frenzy. There were tears leaking from her eyes and Sherlock was surprised she hadn't fainted yet.

 

'Do you know what a barrage is, Sherlock?' came Moriarty's voice. 'I bet you've deleted it already, but you'll get a lovely demonstration by our dear horse tamer. A jump-off is usually decided by either the fastest round or the faultless one. I would advice Miss Sissi to ride faultlessly.' The or else was made clear enough by the four snipers posted at each corner. And then Sherlock saw something shift in Sissi's demeanour. She was blinking furiously to get the tears out of her eyes and her hands weren't shaking any more. The fear replaced by determination.

 

-

 

Her head was a cacophony of panicked thoughts until the horse set his foot under him and it slammed her right back into control. Right. She was going to do this or she was going to die. No choice about it. She could hear the man hiring out horses talk to her, he had been raving about the one she was riding. Retired jumper, he had said. A blast with kids and a delight to work with. Won tons of medals but he couldn't find a good enough rider for him. He needed someone who could stay quiet and trust their horse to do the work, not mess with strides and hang on the reins. Sissi took a deep breath. She could do that, the horse was the one with the experience here. She tried not to let the panic rise again. The steady _oh god oh god oh god_ that had engulfed her when she saw the jumps. She could do this, she had to do this. No-one was shooting at her yet, so she had the time to prepare.

 

-

 

Sherlock breathed a little easier when he saw Sissi moving. He wasn't sure what she was doing, besides fiddling with the stirrups, but at least she was preparing herself instead of panicking. Irene had moved away from the screen again and Sherlock craned his head to find her. He didn't expect to get the flat of the riding crop against his cheek so hard the sting brought tears to his eyes. 

 

'We can't have that, darling, I want your eyes on our sweet little amazon or Jim kills her anyway.' 

 

Sherlock turned his head again to contradict her. 'You can't do-' His other cheek got a beating.

 

'Eyes on the screen Sherlock. I knew you were stubborn, but that’s not stubborn, that's just stupidity.' 

 

Sherlock blinked the tears out of his eyes and tried to focus on the screen, but his cheeks were still stinging and the earlier sharp image was now a blurring blob of colour. Irene's hand swam into his vision with a phone in her hand. Sherlock had to blink even more to get it into focus. It showed a message screen with the word 'Go' on it. Her finger hovering over the send button. Moriarty started talking again and Sherlock wondered where he was. Was he seeing it through a camera or was he in the forest, gloating about it?

 

'You know what, Sherlock?' he said, while Sissi was standing in the saddle and then putting up the stirrups further. 'I could just kill her right now, put a bullet through her head while she thinks she understands the rules of the game. The look of surprise on her face would be a treasure, wouldn't it, Sherlock?' 

 

Sherlock didn’t dignify that with a response, just to be sure. He was sure Moriarty would find that too boring anyway, his victims had to dance for him, not just die with a faint feeling of surprise. They had to feel terror before they went, Moriarty wanted them to hate him before he had the pleasure of putting a bullet through them. Or giving the order anyway. 

 

-

 

Sissi took a deep breath, she had to go now or she would lose her courage and get shot for it. She was as ready as she would ever be. Her stirrups were short enough that she could easily come up in two-point and shorter than she was used to when jumping because god she would need it. Her instructor was giving her advice in her head. ‘Go easy, don’t think you know what you’re doing better than the horse because that is really not the case today and BREATHE.’

 

She went, half of her terrified and the other half elated at the opportunity. She had never jumped like this, chairs and cavaletti did not in any way compare. _Don’t think about that_ , said Sherlock in stern tones, _you’ll panic and freeze, just do it._ She obeyed.

 

The first jump was bad, her veins turning to ice at the last second and the horse almost halting for it. It didn’t get better after that. It was a tough course and Sissi tried not to think about everything that could go wrong. Not about the madman that had designed it or the fact that she had barely jumped before this. The horse helped, his stride was sure and she only had to point in the right direction and follow his lead. There was a moment where they stumbled in a tight corner and Sissi was sure she could hear the bullet rushing towards her. She had to shove her feet deeper into the stirrups to prevent herself from tipping over when the push off for the next jump came. It was so much stronger, so much faster, it felt like flying. And then it was over. Sissi could feel the sweat pouring off her and she saw the foam streaks on the horse’s chest and around his mouth. They were both panting heavily with the exertion of it.

 

It took several moments before Sissi had come to her senses again and the world broadened beyond stride and breath and giving rein. When she looked around the arena was deserted, no more snipers and no more cars. It almost felt like she had made it all up, that it had just been a figment of the imagination. The tracks in the sand showed otherwise, thankfully. Sissi knew she wouldn’t have been able to deal with the uncertainty of it if they hadn’t been there. 

 

-

 

The screen went black just before Sissi had cleared her last jump and Sherlock was only halfway through his sigh of relief when he felt the jab of a syringe in his neck. He only had time to think: ‘Not this again,’ before the world went away. He woke up in his chair in Baker Street and someone had changed him into his dressing gown. He tried not to let it unbalance him; it didn’t work very well. He was imagining Irene rooting through this stuff, Irene undressing him- Stop, stop, stop _stop_. His violin was suddenly in his hands, but playing barely kept his mind from straying. Thankfully, it halted his imagination halfway through most of the senario's and stopped him from thinking of whatever the woman would have done with his prone body. 

 

When Sissi came in he was sitting in his Thinking Chair, trying to immerse himself in his current case. His thoughts kept scattering in all directions, but thankfully not in the direction of the violation of his body. It didn't work very well, now that he had managed to distract himself from that blasted woman he was thinking about her boss. Not enough data, not enough leads. Nothing. Sherlock wanted to tear his hair out. The blasted man had him trapped in a corner. He didn't even have to imagine the gloating smile on the bastard’s face. Sherlock forced himself to focus on Sissi, she was standing in the doorway, looking like she didn't know what to do. The redness in her face from the effort was slowly draining away, just her cheeks were rosy now. The helmet in her hand by the straps. Her hand was slightly slack, like she wasn't really paying attention. Probably coming down from the adrenaline rush now.

 

She looked good in her riding clothes and Sherlock still felt glee at her expression when she saw them. The tailor had been discreetly informed of her hobby and  ordered to keep it a secret. The breeches fit more perfectly than any she must have had before and Sherlock let himself follow the seams up to her waist. She looked quite lovely, he noted with practised detachment. The breeches accentuated the shape of her legs and did nothing to hide her wide hips. The blouse was cut in a way that allowed full range of motion, but it still managed to accentuate her waist. The tailor had grinned very widely when she found out her client had an hourglass figure and went off mumbling about all the possibilities. The threads in the soft grey silk caught his attention and he had to follow the lines until he reached the collar and the neatness was disturbed. Her skin was still slightly shiny with sweat, her pupils still dilated. Her face was empty and she was gazing into the middle distance. The tension in her body told him that she was reliving the events that he got to watch in excruciating detail. The last rays of the sun made her hair look like it was on fire, all copper and red. There was dust swirling around in the beams of light, obscuring his vision. He could smell the musky tones of horse around her and the tang of sweat. 

 

The crispness of the fire seared his senses. The warmth and the light flickering over everything in the space. It was home, the smells and the sounds and the textures. The wallpaper soothed his eyes, the colours calmed his thoughts so far that Sherlock could feel the quiet in his head. He could hear the soft sounds of cars passing and Mrs. Hudson doing her dishes. The humming of the refrigerator and almost unheard buzz of his laptop.  It eased the tension in him, the frustration and the anger. And then Sissi's helmet dropped to the floor with a dull thud and both she and Sherlock startled back to the present. 

 

The disquiet was back in his body in an instant. Moriarty, Moriarty, Moriarty like a drum, a heartbeat. He went in circles and here was nothing he could do. Thwarted at every turn and made out a fool. Sherlock wanted to rip and hurt and slice but he kept his hands quiet and used his tongue instead. 'Had a lovely ride did you?'

 

He could see Sissi startle at his tone, the sound hadn't brought her out of her trance, but his voice had. Shock. Her face was suddenly full of animation. Not blank any more, but a frown and drawn lips that made her look ugly. 'A lovely ride,' the disbelief in her voice made Sherlock giddy. The anger was under the surface, he could feel it. He wanted to see her break, to yell at him, to hurt.

 

'It must have been relaxing,' a shot in the dark, as far as he did those, but it was a good shot because her body went rigid and he could see her breathe deeply, gathering momentum to shout. She didn’t, but the hurt was evident in her tone.

 

'Oh, yes, I had a lovely ride, my life wasn't at stake at all.' Sherlock stared at her, wanted to push her further, but suddenly unsure how. The disbelief was back and she looked somewhat stunned. 'You don't know, do you?' She threw her arms up in a gesture that told of hopelessness and defeat. 'I could have had a bullet in my brain, but that would have been nice of him. Those jumps-' her voice broke slightly, no doubt imagining what would happen. 'If my horse had clipped them, I would have fallen and I doubt Moriarty would put me out of my misery after I've been trampled.' There were tears in her eyes and she wiped them away with trembling fingers. 'He would have let me suffer in agony and then maybe he would have mercy after doing who knows what with me.' 

 

She turned on her heel and vanished up the stairs. 

 

Sherlock looked up and had to note that the light had faded from the sky. It was the greyish orange now that Sherlock still detested, no matter how much he loved the City. When his head was especially noisy and too small he wished for the clear skies with stars in them, something to focus on that would never be overwhelming and always beautiful. Instead, he was cooped up in his chair, watching the blandest and stupidest soap he could manage at this hour. His thoughts did not quiet and it wasn't the blissful peace that Sissi disturbed but it was distracting at least. He picked up the hesitant steps on the stairs even with the shouting of the muted telly.  _ Bare feet, exhausted, unsure or insecure.  _ Sherlock felt a twang of guilt at the realisation that she was still scared of him even with reassurances and modified behaviour. It took ages for her to appear in the doorway, minutes creeping by with the occasional creak of the stairs. Sherlock tried not to appear too needy for diversion, but focused on her with the knowledge it would make the clamour of his thoughts momentarily disappear.

 

Her hair was tousled, half out of the neat braid she slept in. The bags under her eyes almost black in the flashing light of the telly. Exhausted. She didn't even flinch under his gaze like she usually would, didn't even react to the fact that she was standing there in a t shirt that barely covered her thighs while she usually blushed when her skirt came just above the knee. Sherlock found himself looking for words that could convey the amount of tired he could see in every line of her body and came up blank. Her voice was apologetic as usual, soft and hesitant like she hoped people wouldn't hear. Now it was a register lower than usual, with a burr in it that sent tingles down Sherlock’s spine and quieted the drumbeat filling the corners of his mind. He absent-mindedly wondered if John's voice ever did that and then recalled that he had deleted most of John now. And then he registered what she was saying.

 

'It keeps coming back.' He could see her trying to say it, to form words about the images on the back of her eyelids and fail entirely. He could guess, Moriarty, pain, bullets and torture, with a smattering of rape on the side accompanied by the death of her loved ones. He could see her trying to ask for help and how the words stopped near her throat where they died and faded away. He saw the tears in her eyes and the lines on her hand where she put her nails and squeezed in an effort to stop overreacting. Then he was off his chair and had his arms around her tightly. Murmuring 'What do you need?' in her hair, knowing she would hear it no matter how quietly he spoke. 

 

She smelled of sweat and fear and his conditioner. Completely still, tense and not moving a muscle. Sherlock could feel that the close contact was freaking her out even more, the rapid thump thump thump of her heartbeat almost audible to his ears. So he let her go and put some space between them. He only had to stare at her expectantly for a few seconds before she swallowed and put into words what her eyes -following the moving images on the television- already betrayed. 'I would like to watch...' Sherlock hated the way every vowel seemed to ask for permission, how submissive she was. 

 

She needed comfort, support and warmth, something to drive the cold panic and fear from her mind. And Sherlock would give it to her, because it was his fault, damnit. He set her on the couch and almost sprinted to the kitchen. When he walked back into the living room intending to steal some chocolate for hot chocolate from Mrs. Hudson's cupboard he saw her staring at the remote control. She looked at it like it's some kind of demon. So he made sure to make enough noise while he was passing and then to nod at her with enough head motion so that she would come to the right conclusion. 

 

When he came back with blankets and a steaming mug in his hand she was looking at the screen. The white flare of it making her look hollowed out and empty. He vaguely noticed the screen that said 'buy this movie'. She looked so horribly indecisive and that was not the point of the exercise so he smiled one of the non-threatening smiles at her and hoped it would give some reassurance.

 

'What are we watching?' 

 

She didn’t answer but resolutely pressed buttons on the remote even though her fingers trembled ever so slightly. Sherlock settled in next to her, making sure there was still space between them, but not so much she would feel obliged to stay away. Halfway through the Princess Bride she had her head against his shoulder and at the end of it she actually muttered some kind of protest when he got up to refill her mug. After that there was Cinderella and then The Sleeping Beauty. She must have seen them more often, because even he has, but it was something to keep the thoughts away, to have occupy the space when you didn’t want to think. When The Lady and the Tramp was nearing the end the sky was fading to a more palatable grey and Sissi was asleep in his lap. 

  
  


The next morning was less awkward than Sherlock thought it would be. Maybe because when he woke up with a still quietly breathing Sissi draped over him and aches everywhere from sleeping on the couch, it wasn't actually morning any longer. The light of the sun and the way it was shining in his eyes something awful suggested it had to be noon at least, probably later. He found himself with the difficult task of manoeuvring out under Sissi without waking her, because that would be too embarrassing for them both. There were a few spotty moments, where he moved too suddenly and had to close his eyes and stay still until she quieted again. Slipped back into tired dreams. It seemed like ages until he was freed and Sissi was still asleep on the couch with a blanket draped over her.

 

Sherlock hoped he could convince her that the whole night simply hadn't happened. That they hadn’t had the quiet moments of understanding and companionship. He didn't feel like his chances would be very good, but he could at least completely ignore it. Maybe she would too. 

 

His anxious thoughts were kept from turning around and around by Lestrade coming by for paperwork. Neatly stopping all his worries in their tracks. The man stared at Sissi with soft eyes and a decidedly wistful look on his face. He looked so lost that Sherlock didn't even want to ask what was wrong. She only woke up when the sun had gone down again and almost fell of the couch in her sleepy confusion. She murmured a thank you that sounded suspiciously like an apology. Sherlock felt that he had to put some food in her, since that was what she did for him and then sent her to bed again. 

 

When Sissi came down the next morning her hair was wet and she looked much healthier than the day before. The bags under her eyes had almost completely disappeared and her cheeks were still rosy from the heat of the shower. Sherlock felt this meant things would now be allowed to go back to normal and he could stop being caring and kind. He was contemplating how to find another John, so to keep his mind off the ever pressing issue of Moriarty. He hadn't taken Sissi along on any investigation after the first one, partly because Sissi looked rather queasy when she glanced over photos in his files and partly because Sally could really throw her punches. But he missed having someone around him, someone to deduce and make conclusions and spur along his thoughts until everything was made of crystal and so very very neat.

 

No-one in his group of casual acquaintances would do. The people at the MET were good at what they did but they had no imagination. He already had a flatshare now however involuntary it might be so he couldn't really find someone interesting. Sissi was smart, he had to admit it. She had been absorbing most of the knowledge found around the flat like a sponge. Going through all his books, all of them with no concern of what they were actually about. Sometimes she would frown and go for a dictionary or another text for clarification, but she hadn't once asked for explanations from him. He was sure it must be part fear of rejection and mockery but it also seemed like she at least had a rudimentary understanding of what she was reading. All the advanced science books were read and even if he sometimes caught a look of puzzlement on her face it was usually followed by one of triumph after she had scribbled in her notebook and read more and more until the words made sense to her. 

 

He came back from the most recent case that baffled the poor police just in time to see her reaching for a row of unassuming books on a shelf she couldn't quite touch. Sherlock wasn't the kind of person to be scared, to weigh risk and chance and feel terrified by the conclusion. But now he felt ice roll down his spine. He wanted to shout at her again, to stop those fingers from touching the spines and her eyes from reading. He had bound those books himself, bound them to look as boring and stupid as possible. They contained his notes, all of them. 

 

The art of deduction wasn't learned through books alone and those notebooks contained all the conclusions and jumps and reasons Sherlock had been putting together since the moment he could think about other things than sustenance and survival. No-one had ever laid eyes on those words. And now someone else was touching them and it made Sherlock’s hair stand on end. And knowing Sissi, she could tear through them and absorb it and remember it and dull the paper with her silly ticks. She always bent the corners of the paper and let it slide through her finger and the prospect of her doing that with his notebooks felt like torture. And then logic kicked in again.

 

If he let her read this, he really wouldn't be the only consulting detective any more. Sissi would be one too, inexperienced and probably different in every way but still someone with knowledge and the same skills if unrefined. Someone who would bring the clarity he needed, someone who understood what he saw, what it was like. If he let her do this, he wouldn't be the only one any more, wouldn't be alone. And somehow, it sounded like a good thing, not being alone. So he walked towards her and smiled when she looked at him with a guilty expression on her face.

 

'Let me get that for you.' The notebooks were lowered from their altar and space was made on one of the side tables. He could see the suspicion taking hold of Sissi, perhaps because he handled these particular books with a lot more care than any of the others. She was intrigued enough to ask after it. 

 

'These books, are they special?' 

 

Sherlock caressed one of the spines with his finger and grinned at her before walking toward his room. 'Enjoy the read.' 

 

He would have to start desensitising her to corpses soon. Sherlock remembered how many times his body had betrayed him, the bile and the nausea at seeing wounds and bruises and the horrifying stillness of the just deceased. It had taken him long, so long to tamp down the caring, to stop feeling the assault that hadn't happened to his body but to someone else’s. He had managed and he was sure Sissi could too. Caring out of grief and fear replaced by caring in a clinical and efficient way, by catching whomever needed catching. Mycroft would say that caring was weakness, he was very fond of that sentiment, said it in every possible way he could. Sherlock disagreed. His empathy was his driving force. Empathy worked into cold hard efficient fact and reason and logic. Sherlock wasn't sure how he had achieved it, but he could still remember the first moment that the overwhelming feeling had suddenly shifted and transmuted into the clear and crystal place of deduction and what he could do when he was there. Empathy gave him the  energy he needed, the ability to ignore risk and simply run and think and save people. And he knew in his bones that Sissi was the same. 

 

She did enjoy the read, he could see it in her face. After she finished the second notebook, he started taking her out to cafés and restaurants. Quiet ones still, but often with a view of the street where she would carefully unpick the people passing by, or the ones eating their lunch or dinner. He had to be careful, she had shut down the first few times when he corrected her. Or not spoken at all out of fear of getting it wrong. He had to deduce things wrong, blatantly wrong often, to open her up. 

 

When she did Sherlock felt a thrill that was unlike the chase or the danger. He suddenly knew how John must have felt. It was like magic to hear her unpick details and unravel facts and piece together someone’s life by the colour of their clothing. While she was reading the third notebook Sherlock was burying himself in books about training and learning. He wanted to get it right, he wanted more of the thrill when she got things right, more of the glee when he saw understanding on her face after she had spent a day reading and scribbling. So he made a plan and planned some more. Positive reinforcement was important, it had to be fun for her. It had to be nice and pleasant just like it had been for him. Or he would be alone again. 

 

He had noticed how she avoided the forensics books in his bookcase, so he felt a bit nervous bringing her down to the morgue. But it was quiet today and he knew there weren't any particularly violent murders in the last week so they should be good. He hoped Molly and Sissi would like each other. Some people had an extra sense for gauging if people would click and Sherlock knew that he wasn't one of them.

 

He could see Sissi was nervous, she limped slightly more when she was nervous, like the tenseness of her body meant her muscles couldn't quite function properly. But she looked determined enough that Sherlock felt the positive reinforcement was working. Acting and pushing buttons was easy compared to teaching people things. You had to be so immensely precise and Sherlock wondered how his tutors felt about teaching him. Molly was her usual clumsy self when he introduced her but Sissi smiled and seemed a lot more relaxed after talking to her. She was still sick when she saw the woman on the slab and Lestrade chose that moment to step into the room. 

 

'Molly, I have- bloody hell, Sherlock!' Sherlock could see him starting a rant on civilians and proper behaviour but before any words came out of his mouth Sissi came to her senses. She looked pale but determined. 

 

'I want this, sir,' she said and it came out calm and certain instead of soft and apologetic. 'Sherlock has been teaching me and if I want to help, I need to do this. You can do it, I can too.'

 

Lestrade looked stunned and Molly dropped the file. She got up from where she had been crouched over the waste bin and was slowly approaching the table again. 'I want to do this.' And then she was circling the table with slow steps, carefully stating facts and making conclusions. He could see it wasn't easy for her, he could see she had to push away the pain from wounds not her own. Her voice broke sometimes and she got things wrong but she did it. 

 

-

 

The restaurant was pleasant, quieter than what they had been going to the past few days, because Sherlock felt he couldn't lavish enough reward on his charge right now. They called it a jackpot in the books and it appeared to be working. Sissi looked happy eating her food in the slow way that said she was savouring every bite of it. In between bites she was commenting on the various people around the place. There was a slight hesitation as she began on the personal life of the waiter that was serving them.

 

'Student, unhappy with his job and maybe his study. Avid gamer, maybe addicted and he doesn't have a relationship.' The suddenly flat tone made Sherlock look up from his food and consider her. He focused on the way she said those words again in his head and suddenly things took on clarity. Sissi was staring at her food, her happy mood suddenly vanished. Sherlock felt the need to bring it back and fumbled for a way to do it.

 

'That was you, that was why you came to London isn't it?' It took her by surprise but she smiled in a rueful way and nodded.

 

'Yeah, I didn't know what I wanted and I was useless at the things I tried.' She took another bite and the pleased expression returned, even if it wasn't returning in full force. 'I sewed and I loved training our dogs and I was really interested in history, but I didn't know what I wanted to do. Now I do thankfully.' Sherlock decided that he wasn't going to ruin his own evening by admitting he had made a rather glaring mistake. 

 

He only started about it the next day since there was no case and Sissi looked like she needed more distraction from her day with Molly at the morgue than the book in her hands was giving her. 'Did you know what I was doing?' he asked. It was rather out of the blue, but he knew by now that she wouldn't be thrown by it, she would reason it out and he was sure that she would come to the right conclusion.

 

Sissi put her book down and stared at him for a bit. Sherlock knew that stare by now, it meant she was carefully putting together what she wanted to say in her head, in order to make all the words come out right. 'Yes, I did. I wouldn't have, but you were reading the same books I read before we got our first dog. It was easier to make the connection after that.'

 

Sherlock didn't say anything to that, he was too busy trying to find an excuse for him overlooking the fact that the person he was training might have known about conditioning. Sissi took his silence as a request for explanation and Sherlock wasn't about to correct her. She looked uncertain about her words and they came out in a careful way that said she had put more thought into them than usual.

 

'I- consented to it, I guess.' She was silent for a while, thumbing at the papers spread around her. 'Most people bully me into learning, they say I'm intelligent and then expect me to always be perfect. I have to get it right and I don't get a reward for it. And it feels absolutely miserable.' Silence reigned again, longer this time. Sherlock was glued to his chair, he knew she had more to say since she was still staring and he wanted to know what it was. 'It's nice, to be rewarded for doing it right, not just for the reward, but because it makes learning nice as well. Less stressful and more relaxing. Others always expected me to learn even though I had no reason to.' She smiled at him and returned to her book. 

  
  


Sherlock was slightly alarmed at how fast Sissi picked things up, she had started sitting by when he met clients, with her notebook and sometimes her books. She silently observed and often came to the right conclusions with a speed that startled him. She wasn't as fast as he was, by far, but she was allowed to be slow. Sherlock knew that it had taken him years to get where he was, deduction was mostly practice. She would be formidable given another 5 or 10 years. If she wasn't studying or listening to his clients, she spent her time with Molly. She only went green at particularly gruesome scenes now and she helped Molly with autopsies. It couldn't be entirely legal, but it didn't look like anyone cared. It looked in fact, like Sissi was enjoying it judging by the amount of forensic and medical books spread around her at any given time. She accompanied him when Lestrade had a case for Sherlock and quizzed Anderson at length about different methods and the analysing of substances. 

 

As weeks went by she started asking more questions, or at least, comments framed as questions. Sherlock thought she didn't want to hurt him, or something like it and snorted in derision about goldfish. The questions helped him though, because they often contained a slightly different conclusion than the one he had made himself. A different interpretation of the facts or different meaning gleaned from someone's tone of voice. Part of Sherlock was proud and another part distinctly uneasy. 

  
He hadn't expected her to be so good at it, or wanted her to be so good at it. He was unsettled by it, but Sissi didn't seem to notice. So when one morning a man came running into Baker Street proclaiming he murdered someone while one look at his person said that he did in fact not kill anyone Sherlock felt this might be a good moment to put some space between him and Sissi. It was only a 6 after all and next he might start wishing for Mycroft to take her out again. It wouldn't do to sink that low. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Post every Sunday they said, won't be so hard they said. Hah. I am terribly sorry and I swear to god I will try to update a bit more regularly now.

DI Carter had a bad day and when Lestrade called him, he was sure it was going to get worse. They must be sending Sherlock to his crime scenes now, letting him waltz around here too now that he was getting more attention. He couldn't blame his superiors, it made the Yard look better after all. Fancier and more like the series people gobbled up that had no basis in reality at all. Lestrade sounded awfully grim though, if he was only calling to warn him about Sherlock.

 'Carter, if you are not as gentlemanly as you can possibly be to the lady, I'm sending Sherlock after her and he's currently rather grumpy.'

 And the universe chose that exact moment for the taxi to arrive.

 Carter wasn't sure what to say so he simply opened the door and greeted the young lady stepping out. She smiled at him and made polite small talk while he walked her through all the police tape and Carter felt slightly relieved she was here instead of the brusque detective. There was a sleek tablet in her hand that she activated once she had walked around the place once and Carter couldn't help but sneak a peek at it. She was chatting amiably to the stark figure of the dreaded detective and showing him things through the camera. Carter hovered nearby, he didn't want to disturb her, with Lestrade's warning in the back of his head, but it hurt rather a lot to be blindsided at his own investigation. It was a relief when she put away the tablet in her bag and turned to him again.

 'He suddenly disconnected, but thankfully this is pretty straightforward, sir.' She smiled at him and pointed to the riverbank. 'You'll find your last piece of evidence along it somewhere, I believe.'

 And at that moment a helicopter landed. Almost on his bloody crimescene too.

 Carter and Sissi turned to the young officer who came running towards them. He smiled rather dazzling at her and pointed to the helicopter. 'It's for you, miss,' he said. Carter thought the look of surprise on her face made his day a lot better.

 

* * *

 

Sissi had done very well about not panicking while she was in the heli. The view was wonderful even if the pilot had been incredibly tight lipped about where they were going. When she saw the form of Buckingham Palace appear, the panic was back in an instant and nothing could quell it. No breathing exercise or deduction about her surroundings could stamp down the sensation of ice in her veins.

 It always made her feel so helpless, the way she didn't have control over her own emotions. Everybody had it, except for her. The sight of Mycroft on the helipad jolted her more than she liked, but it was a relief in a way. She wondered what persona he was here. She didn't know if it had something to do with Sherlock, but maybe he was Older Brother now. Or maybe Minor Government Official, it was hard to tell. He smiled and kissed her hand, she was sure he hadn't done that before, so he must be someone else right now.

Sissi decided this particular set of behaviours would be called Gentleman, because he was even more courteous than usual. Having a familiar person next to her was comforting and she wanted to ask why she was here but then they stepped into an entry hall and Sissi was speechless with excitement. Mycroft seemed to pick up on it and started a good-natured discourse on Buckingham Palace and its history. The nervousness had disappeared from her body by the time they found Sherlock sitting grumpily on a couch. In a sheet.

 Sissi felt a giggle would be incredibly inappropriate considering where she was. But out of the corner of her eye she could see the corners of Mycroft's eyes crinkle in private laughter before he schooled his face into the particular mix of disappointment that Sissi had dubbed Older Brother.

 He settled her on the opposite couch, as if he wanted to keep her away from Sherlock. Mycroft spent the rest of the time pointedly gazing at Sherlock’s clothes on the table, while Sherlock kept ignoring him. Sissi got steadily better at stifling her giggles, looking at the two of them and managed to snag at least Mycroft in conversation about the architect of the building.

 At some point Mycroft looked up and Sissi almost pulled a muscle as fast as she turned around to watch a man walking towards them. Mycroft greeted him with a smile and a jovial handshake and then introduced her. She got another hand kiss that made her blush to her toes and Sherlock sigh in resignation.

The man was dressed well and something about him made her think 'glorified butler'. He was obviously someone who got tasks delegated too, but he must have been rather high up the hierarchy, because dog hairs were clinging to his trousers. Didn't the Queen have corgis?

 He turned to Sherlock at last while Mycroft sat down again.

 'I have the pleasure of standing in for your client, Mr. Holmes, because they would like to remain anonymous.'

 Sherlock raised his eyebrows at the man and pointedly shook his head. 'I'm terribly sorry, sir, but I do not do anonymous clients, I like mystery at one end of my cases, both is too much work.' He got up and started walking away, his sheet draped around him like a toga.

 Sissi took her chance and grabbed the bit of fabric that was trailing behind him when he passed. The movement almost made the blush return, the feeling of all their eyes on her sickening, making her stomach squirm and her body feel too big.

 'Sherlock,' she said once he had come to a stop, clinging to the last bit of his sheet. Maybe because it was the only thing that was preventing him from being completely naked. The words had to be forced out, but she'd started now, stopping was unthinkable. 'Aren't you getting cold?'

 He very carefully turned towards her and sneered. 'Who is my bloody client?' No-one was entirely sure who he was addressing, but Sissi answered. 'Look around you, Sherlock, even I figured it out.'

Sherlock caved, she could see it by the way he pulled the sheet out of her hand and arranged it around him again. Mycroft nudged the teapot towards her with a smile. 'You can be mother.' She stared at him, feeling her cheeks heating for real now. Sherlock took pity when he realised she didn't understand, though his face was still full of disdain. 'He means you can pour the tea.'

 The man took that moment to start talking again. 'My employer has a problem.'

 Sherlock lifted his eyebrows at him again. 'Why come to me? You have a police force of sorts, even a marginally Secret Service. Surely they can take care of this problem for you.'

 The man grimaced and took a sip of his tea, obviously trying to delay the inevitable. He put his saucer down before answering. 'We believe that this needs your particular set of skills.' The eyebrows stayed sarcastic and disbelieving. The man sighed and took a folder out of a briefcase. He handed them to Mycroft and Mycroft handed them to Sherlock who started thumbing through the photos.  

 Sissi thought he kept the expression of shock neatly off his face, but his entire body tensed for a second. Mycroft had to have noticed it too because he took over the conversation. 'This is Irene Adler. She’s been at the centre of two political scandals in the last year, and recently ended the marriage of a prominent novelist by having an affair with both participants separately.' Sherlock didn't dignify him with a response, but Sissi looked baffled. 'How did she manage that?' she asked.

 Mycroft smiled a rather mirthless smile at her. 'She's a dominatrix by profession.'

 'Dominatrix,' echoed Sherlock, while going through the photo's that showed the website.

 'Yes, it has to do with sex.'

 Now Sissi was the one to raise her eyebrows. 'Really, I had no idea.' She held her hand out for the photographs and Sherlock provided them with a smile before turning back to his brother.

 'I assume this woman has photographs?'

 The glorified butler nodded with a grimace. 'You're as quick as they say, Mr. Holmes.'

 'It's hardly a difficult leap, sir. Who is in them?'

 'Adler, and a person of significance to my employer.'

 Sherlock looked at him and his gaze hardened.

'I see.'

He was up in a flash already putting on his coat and motioning to her. He was just going to _leave_? It wasn't like she had much of a choice, besides awkwardly nodding to Mycroft in some attempt at politeness. He had a grimace on his face that looked almost painful. She could see him frantically trying to find the thing he could say that would put the conversation back on the right track. She really did not envy him, but she had seen Sherlock’s demeanour change when he picked up those pictures. She couldn't pinpoint what the problem was, but it must have been big because Sherlock hadn't been this rude before. He usually listened to cases presented to him, he didn't snark and throw tantrums. She wondered if she could communicate her worries to Mycroft somehow, but it would probably be impolite and awkward. It was already awkward, the way she was standing by the couch, suddenly indecisive, while Sherlock was walking away.  

 She could see the moment Mycroft made up his mind, his face froze for no longer than a second and then hardened, just like Sherlock had. He waved Sissi away, so she started walking as well. The words that went after her sent shivers down her spine, she could feel the mathematics that must have been done. The calculation of effort and hurt and motivation. 'Are you running away? Afraid of being bested by a woman?' Sherlock huffed and turned back to his brother.

 'That was not your best work, brother dear. But the message is clear.' The icy look in his eyes made Sissi shudder, but she hurried after him nonetheless.

 Sherlock's big strides were incredibly hard to keep up with, but thankfully there was no-one around to see her half-run after Sherlock. He was going fast, where usually he at least moderated his stride so that she could keep up. When they made it to the cab, she was breathing hard and it wouldn't surprise her if her face was as red as a tomato. Sherlock didn't take note of it at least, he was staring rather intensely at his mobile so that left Sissi to stare out of the window and wonder what on earth happened.

 Sherlock cut through her thoughts when they were nearing Baker street. 'Since my brother so desperately wants me to to retrieve some boring photographs, I've decided that I'll put my best woman onto it.'

 She was was making an awful habit of staring uncomprehendingly by now. Sherlock seemed to do that to her and for that matter, so did his brother. 'What do you mean?' she asked carefully. Sherlock didn't answer, but there was a bounce in his step when he left the taxi. It became clear what he meant just minutes later, since he was gleefully examining the package from the dressmaker.

 'Just in time, lovely. Now...' Sherlock turned towards her, examining her with even more force than usual. 'A disguise won't help much, covering up your hair would be a pain and she'll recognise you anyway.' Sissi felt there was no other option than to wait it out. It didn't look like she would get an answer to her question, but he had heard it, she was sure. 'But you need something...' He tossed some of the clothes towards her. 'Get dressed, and use fancy underwear.' Sissi wanted to stay and demand an explanation, but she felt too tired and too overwhelmed to even think of what she wanted to say, so she got dressed.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock forced himself to pay extra attention, to take in ever detail as Sissi fairly hopped from foot to foot under the scrutiny. She looked a lot better in her new tailored clothes. They fit her perfectly and neatly exaggerated the difference between her hips and waist without drawing attention away from her face.

 But it wasn't enough, it looked nice, but not nice enough. Not provoking like Adler would certainly like it. Not sexy in any way. Sherlock thought that maybe Sissi simply wasn't capable of being sexy, something she had in common with Molly really. He had to try his best though, he couldn't let her walk into the claws of that woman without armour on.

 'Take it off again, it won't do.'

 And while he was going through the clothes she took it all off again, in her room, like he hadn’t deduced every possible fact about her body yet. Insecure, it flashed through his mind again. He kept forgetting. It's so easy to forget how frail she actually was. How easily hurt and broken. She hid it well. Insecure and scared and suddenly Sherlock felt sick. Was he really doing this? Was he really sending her out like he would send John out? John the soldier. She wasn’t a soldier, she was just flesh and blood. But she was smart and she kept him there, held his sheet and made a scathing remark. She deserved it.

 He ended up settling on one of his shirts and one of the demure grey jackets over it. A long circle skirt that fell to her calf but still made her waist and hips show. It made him think of something he read in one of her books, the ones with the bright covers and strange stories. About how covering up left something to the imagination.

 Sissi still looked like Sissi, he really couldn't make her look like anyone else. But now she looked like a girl who wasn't demure down to her toes, now she looked like a girl who was demure on the outside instead of all the way to her core. He hoped it would distract Adler a bit, because he was sure Sissi herself wouldn't do that very well.

 

* * *

  

It was written on his face that he did not expect her to succeed in whatever he wanted her to do, but Sissi agreed with him, so it didn't hurt too much. He had given her instructions to distract the damned woman and to find the bloody photographs.

 He hadn't told her how she was supposed to accomplish it and Sissi could feel her nerves getting steadily worse and worse the longer the drive went on. She had to go alone and Sherlock hadn't explained anything at all. Just distract a woman and find photographs. Sissi tried to convince herself it wasn't a big deal and that it was safe or Sherlock wouldn't have let her do it. She failed horribly. Sherlock had been so on edge that it had her teeth clattering. Something about the case made him upset or angry or scared but she couldn't say which one it was.

 People were getting easier and easier to read now she was working through Sherlock’s notebooks. She had trouble with it before, but somehow people's emotions were getting clearer with each blandly bound book that she went through. That and the psychology books in the extensive bookcase. When the cabbie pulled over and turned to her for his money Sissi's stomach felt like it was populated by worms, all crawling and cold. She wanted to run, run away, run home to windblown skies and pasture and all the animals. She needed the wet noses on her cheeks again, it didn't matter if it were the calves or one of the dogs. She just wanted to be grounded again, not this horrible floating feeling.

And then she was ringing the doorbell. Oh god oh god, what would she say? Apparently nothing needed to be said, because the person opening the door only smiled sweetly at her and pointed to one of the open doors. Sissi tried not to twitch when the front door closed behind her. She felt trapped and scared and she wanted out. But there was no out now, so she took a deep breath and tried to appear confident instead. There was tea in expensive china so she took a cup and pretended her hands didn't shake so much that the cup rattled against the saucer and the spoon against the cup.

 She had the presence of mind though to put down her cup when she heard the clicking of heels, something made her think that she might drop it otherwise. The woman who came through the door was Adler without a doubt. And she looked like she was thoroughly enjoying things.

 'This must be our lovely amazon.' she smiled. Sissi tried to switch the panic off, to go to the cold hard place she went when she had a corpse in front of her. The door to it was closed, no matter what she did the panic rose higher and higher until Sissi could almost feel the tears that were about to roll down her cheeks. Images of the arena flashing through her head, the terror, the gun aimed at her head. The woman’s expression suddenly changed, from outright glee to something more matronly. She looked concerned and sweet, Sissi noted, in the corner of her mind that hadn't been taken over by panic and anxiety. She must be a brilliant actor.

 'Sherlock set you up for this, didn't he? Oh that horrible man.' She took Sissi's cup and filled it with tea again. And then added two heaping spoonfuls of sugar to it. 'Drink up sweetheart, you didn't deserve this.'

 Sissi tried to steady her hands, it didn't work very well. The weight of the cup helped and the hot liquid somehow washed a tiny bit of the panic away. She wasn't there, she wasn't on a horse, not riding for her life. She was here in a posh house and she had to distract- The trembling of her hands became steadily worse again. And Sissi saw the cup tumble to the ground with detachment. Shouldn't have picked the bloody thing up, you knew this would happen! Stupid clumsy bitch. The crack it made on the floor made Sissi jolt into the present again. Adler was staring at her now, but Sissi couldn't see what she was thinking or feeling. Was she intrigued or disgusted or entertained?

 Sissi tried to simply not care, to detach and go to the place she went when the panic and the stress became too much. It was bleak and grey and uncomfortable but it was better than feeling. Except that she couldn't go there. The only thing she could do was panic over what a strange woman that no doubt that bad intentions thought of her. Sherlock wanted you to distract her! Do something, he's going to get caught! Sissi was sure she heard sounds upstairs and Irene had to hear them too. That sent the panic up another notch, something she dimly realised shouldn't be possible. Her vision was blurring with tears and there were stars appearing as well.

 Oh god, was she going to faint? Was she going to faint in the house of a stranger? Her thoughts kept going around in circles. She couldn't stop them. She couldn't stop her hands either, reaching down for the broken shards of the cup on the floor. It was suddenly quiet in her head. The shards looked sharp and with the trembling of her hands there was no way to pick them up without cutting herself. _This is going to hurt_ , something whispered into the silence of her mind.

 It did.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter in three months go me! Hope you enjoy it cause things are going downhill after this fast. *grins*

Sherlock felt the adrenaline flushing through his system when he saw Sissi disappear into the posh house that looked like all the others on the street. His diversion was set and now he could start doing his snooping. The back door opened for him like a charm, the lock as easy to open as any other. Adler’s girlfriend dropped like a rock for him when he hit the right nerves. It was really delightful in a way that Sherlock pointedly didn't study any further. 

 

He went though the rooms one by one, on tiptoe and as quiet as he could possibly be. There were no computers to be found anywhere in the godforsaken place so they had to do everything via phone. It wouldn't surprise him at all if the pictures weren't to be found in physical form either. So he was looking for a phone... He was sure it wouldn't be found in the sitting room where Sissi was so obediently distracting Adler. Putting your only communications out in the open like that wasn't a mistake someone working with Moriarty would make. 

 

He wasn't sure what made him make the leap that she wouldn't have it on her, but Sherlock knew he had little time and that his instincts weren't usually wrong. So he returned to the bedroom, the one where she would sleep, instead of the one where clients were no doubt entertained. 

 

The difference was remarkable. The first was light and almost modern only the dresser disturbed the lines of the room. The place for entertaining clients was the opposite. It was dark and old-fashioned. With a structure against the ceiling and wall that would be used to tie people up, no doubt. She wouldn't leave her phone there, though people might make the mistake of thinking that she would because of the clutter and darkness. 

 

Sherlock started methodically going through the bedroom instead. Trying to make sure he kept things in their place, but working too fast to be able to leave everything exactly how it was. He went through the closet first. It was big and contained an immense amount of clothing. The variety was startling, colours and styles abound. It must all be for her business, because Sherlock was sure the sleek and comfortable dresses that occupied only a few hangers were Adler’s favourites. She had worn one of them to torture him, that said enough. They were all showing signs of wear and none of the pockets held the thing he was looking for. 

 

The dresser, after he gave it another go over, did. In his haste he had missed the sleek black form of the phone. The clumsy mistake dampened the feeling of triumph somewhat. And with nothing to occupy him in those seconds, his ears turned to the conversation downstairs. It took a fraction of a second for Adler’s purring voice to convalesce into understandable words. '… I would like to tie you up, I'm sure I can make you beg for more. '

 

Sherlock found himself running down the stairs before his mind had completely caught up with the words. He hesitated in the doorway, there was blood all over the floor and the pristine white couch that Sissi was sitting on. She looked uncomfortable and confused. Sherlock noticed the shards of a cup on the table and the bandage around Sissi's hand. Sherlock felt the guilt slowly welling up inside him. He let her go into this, why had he let her go into this? He- he- he had been- _ Admit it, Sherlock _ , said Mycroft in his mind. He had been  scared, scared and unsettled. And he had let her walk into it so that he wouldn't have to. He lingered longer in the doorway, Adler clearly wasn't done yet with her sexual threats. Sissi didn't look just uncomfortable any more, she looked scared and unsettled as well. As if the idea of sex was repulsive. 

 

'Maybe Jim would like to watch, but I don't  think I'll let him have a go. He always ruins the things he plays with.' Sissi's eyes went large at that and her body rigid with tension. Her mind no doubt providing the images that Adler wanted her to see. Sherlock stepped through the door and walked to the back of the couch so he could put his hand on Sissi's shoulder.  _ You're not alone any more. I was stupid and selfish _ . Adler flashed her teeth at him and stood up as well. She let her coat fall off her shoulders. Made out of fur, Sherlock noted absently, real ermine, mixed with fox and mink of all things. She didn't wear anything underneath. 

 

Sherlock thought he knew what she wanted to accomplish here. She wanted him to be shocked and flustered and off his game. A small part of Sherlock feared it might happen, she wasn't like anything he had encountered before. And then his mind-eye brought up the blood on the couch again and he wasn't off his game at all. Adler was smiling a predatory smile at him, blissfully unaware of what was going on in Sherlock’s head. She must be drawing the wrong conclusions, Sherlock noted. 

 

He surveyed the scene in front of him for himself. Sissi obviously cowed and scared and him showing a blindingly obvious sign of support. Yes, that would be read into. No doubt read into and far far extrapolated beyond reality. But how... What would someone like Adler make of it. Affair? No, she would want more than that, affairs were her bread and butter, she wouldn't dream that up. 

 

Romantic involvement seemed more likely. She was a romantic, her living space showed it clearly. So, she was seeing romantic involvement in what he was doing now, Sissi would hardly deduce things that far, judging by the panic she was in. So he couldn't rely on her acting with him, it would be on his shoulders. Sherlock blanched for a second, though it felt like ages. He wasn't sure how to go on. He wasn't sure how to go on. 

Irene's grin got wider when she noticed his hand on Sissi shoulder, it took her deplorably long but Sherlock could see the gears whirring in her head. And the insult that was no doubt coming, something sexual and vile because she was horribly unoriginal. 

'Oooh, you know what we should do, a threesome. But I do feel that Jim should do the honours then. I would love to see him fuck your uptight arse.' 

 

Sissi startled under his hand and she managed to look even more miserable than she already did. Sherlock slowly started walking around the couch, letting his hand slide off Sissi’s shoulder. He poured himself a leisurely cup of tea when he arrived at the table and took that moment to observe Sissi. 

 

She was obviously affected by the vitriol coming out of Adler’s mouth. Something made him pause though, because her eyes were slowly sweeping the room, cold and calculated. She was acting! It made Sherlock feel immeasurably proud, she was obviously stressed and scared, but somehow she was still thinking, still observing. Sherlock decided in that moment that he would not take the lead. He wanted to see what Sissi was coming up with, wanted to know what conclusions she was making. The photographs weren't important anyway. 

 

So he slowly poured another cup for Sissi and then one for Adler. Adler thanked him and so did Sissi and now they were silently observing each other. Adler, thank the heavens, was focussing on him. He was new after all and Sissi looked absolutely harmless. Absolutely harmless until she had you all figured out and could bring you down. Clients were always surprised by her, it was awfully funny to see their faces when the timid girl in the corner started uncovering their silly lives. 

 

She looked so innocent and she did not have any kind of reputation, Sherlock started to see how it might be a benefit, to be underestimated. He hated it, but Sissi did not seem to mind in the slightest. And when Adler put her cup down and inquired about 'who had done it' Sissi wasn't even angry about it being directed at him. She only smiled in her cup and let him handle it. So he bristled with indignation on her part. Let the woman think he cared for her, it would only work to their advantage. 'Excuse me, but I didn't have a clue, Sissi here went to the scene. She knows.' Adler actually looked surprised and then showed her white teeth in a smile again. 

 

Sissi slowly set her cup down and Sherlock saw her demeanour change. Some of the terror and panic flowed out of her to make place for logic and deduction. He could see her start calculating her moves, her behaviour and even what she was going to say. And then she was up and slowly moving around the room, her eyes on Adler. 'It's really a simple one, I'm sure you can figure it out, if you've already heard of it to begin with.' 

 

Adler was suddenly the picture of attention, leaning forward and focussed on Sissi with a voracity of an intrigued student. 'Oh, I'm sure I can, but give me a hint, darling, we're not all as smart as you are.' 

 

Sissi rolled her eyes and calmly moved towards the fireplace to lean against it. 'The man who reported it did not commit murder, but he did cause it.' 

 

Adler looked positively giddy. 'Riddles! Oh, brainy really is the new sexy. I could ravish you.' 

 

Sissi fixed her with a glare that seemed to come out of nowhere. 'Like I'd date a woman who falls for safes behind mirrors, too cliché for words.' 

 

The mirror started to rise and Sherlock watched downright delighted as Adler’s face fell. She recovered quickly though. 'It's not like you would know the combination.' The glare got punctuated with a raised eyebrow and another elegant eye roll. Sherlock was sure she had practised, because he never saw her do that before. And then there was a gun to her head. Sherlock was about to jump up, but then there was one aimed at him, so he stopped mid-movement. 

 

'Right idea Mr Holmes, you better get on your knees or the Missus will have her brains blown out, understand?' The accent was downright distasteful, but Sherlock obeyed, raising his hands for good measure. Adler did the same. 'What a lovely chat you were all having, if you cooperate, I'm sure it'll stay nice.' He slowly took the gun away from Sissi's head. Sherlock was letting his mind put the puzzle pieces together as fast as he could, but there was no way he could actually use the information. He was in no way in control and he knew why they were here, the accent had made that clear, probably for the pictures or other information that Adler had gotten her hands on somehow. 

 

He could only hope that Sissi would stay clear-headed, instead of succumbing to her panic again. He couldn't spot the signs though, that was good. The menacing man looked at each of them in turn and Sherlock took his chance to deduce him. Intelligence work, CIA, here on a long-term mission. Obviously on his toes, maybe even nervous, high demands or a close deadline. Sissi was standing as still as she could, almost a statue, waiting for commands. 

 

The man motioned with his gun. 'You are opening that safe, Miss.' The or else didn't need to be added. 

 

Sissi nodded slowly and turned towards the panel. 'I don't know it, I would have to guess.' She was speaking slowly as well, doing her best to not upset the man any further. It didn't work very well. 

 

'Don't talk shit to me, you knew where the safe was, you know the code.' His gun swung from its relaxed position to inches from her head. 'If you don't open that safe, Mister Holmes here will be shot in the head!' 

 

Adler actually laughed at that. She sounded carefree even with a weapon pointed at her and a slightly unhinged person in the room. 'Come on Sissi, haven't I given you enough clues?' 

 

Sissi's eyes flicked over to Adler and Sherlock could see the light dawn on her face as she was drawing conclusions. 'Thanks ever so much for being a vain bitch, darling,' she mumbled and slowly punched in the numbers. She hesitated with her hand on the handle and looked at Sherlock. It was very deliberate and what she said even more so, despite the light tone. 'There's probably condoms in it.' Sherlock let his brain kick into gear. Condoms, protection, gun. He ducked just as Sissi opened the safe and ducked herself. 

 

The next few seconds were a blur to Sherlock. He heard the gun go off and he saw the blood blooming on the man's chest. The next moment he had a gun in his hand and was pointing it at the unhinged agent, who found himself without a hostage and without a gun. Sissi had done the smart thing and slapped it out of his hand. She had also been even smarter and kicked it away from him, before sprinting to the unoccupied part of the room. 

 

So now Sherlock had the delight of punching out the silly guy who thought he could make demands. Sissi obscured something in her neatly tailored pockets and one look at the safe showed that it was now lovely and empty. Irene had also neatly disposed of her attacker, thankfully without killing him. He took a deep breath and spurred into action again after that. 

 

'Well, we best be going, the gunshot must have been heard.  It was lovely meeting you.' He swept out of the room content in the knowledge that he would hear if Sissi didn't follow. There were footsteps and then a sigh that set Sherlock’s nerves on fire. He whirled around to see Sissi falling to the floor in a slump, with Adler triumphantly holding her phone. 

 

She grinned at the shocked expression on his face. 'Don't worry love, it's perfectly safe, I've used it on loads of my friends.' Worry flooded through his system. He wouldn't put it past the bitch to kill to get that phone back. It was protected by a gun, for heaven’s sake. The grin only got bigger, presumably because he was showing his emotions on his face. 'Oh honey,' Adler purred. 'The only thing you have to worry about would be her choking on her own tongue. I wouldn't kill such a sweet thing, I might want to see her again.' And then she was gone and Sherlock was alone with his worry. 

  
  


Sherlock tried to act like he was unaffected, but even Sally was quiet when they finally arrived and Sherlock felt that had to be a bad sign. That meant something of his inner turmoil was showing on his face and not in a way that he liked. He was ok with the muscles in his face conveying anger or even boredom. Neutral emotions that nobody could use against him. No-one could use his anger against him, could twist it into something else. Fear was a different matter and now his fear for Sissi was showing and he hated it. 

 

Every time he managed to school his face into blankness she would mumble or spasm and then all the carefully orchestrated muscles would collapse into a frown again. The fevered mumbling was worse than the spasms, Sherlock could clearly hear it was in Dutch, but he didn’t speak or understand a word of Dutch and neither did the others. 

 

Sissi got more and more confused and frustrated as time went on. Agitation rising in step with the slurring of her voice.

 

In Baker Street Sherlock threw a row over where she would sleep. When the EMT was poised to carry her to her room, he felt his heart clench in fear and worry. The words were stumbling out of his mouth before he could stop them and the meaning barely managed to make it to his brain. Something about not being able to hear her and help. 

 

Lestrade looked slightly stunned and Sally had an odd look on her face, but they let it happen. It was only when Sissi was asleep and everyone had left that Sherlock was suddenly aware of what this meant. He was caring, he was caring about her. How had that happened? It shouldn’t happen, it shouldn’t be. The violin did not have answers, but then again neither did the silence. 

 

When the yelp of fear came it was muffled and soft but Sherlock still found himself in his room within seconds. Sissi looked terrified, she was up and swaying on her feet, looking around the room with big wide eyes that reminded Sherlock of a spooked animal. When her gaze fell on him she looked right through him, not even reacting to the fact that there was someone in the room. It made him hesitate. 

 

It felt like she would spook and run when she got aware of his presence. Scattering like a feral cat might. It looked strangely beautiful, the wildness in her eyes and stance. And then Sherlock woke from his trance. She was scared, she needed help, she needed support. He knew how to give it now, he knew what she liked when she was fully aware, he had to be able to figure out what to do when she was confused and not herself. 

 

Sherlock closed his eyes, took a deep breath and willed all the emotion away. He had to think. She wanted closeness when scared, but right now she would most likely shy away from it because she was so confused. So closeness without enforcing bodily contact. But he had to get her into bed somehow. How to minimise contact when doing that? Sherlock walked back to the living room and looked around. The violin would not do, it was comforting, but not personal. And then his eyes fell on one of the books with their colourful covers. Sissi had more of them lying around now, he suspected Mycroft had them delivered. There was a hastily fashioned bookmark in the one on the table. It amused Sherlock. Sissi only seemed to use bookmarks when she remembered that most people didn’t simply remember the page they were on like she did. 

 

It was hard to get her into bed again, she struggled against his grip even when he made absolutely sure that he wasn’t touching her bare skin and applied the right amount of pressure. Not too light but not too hard either. But when she was under the blankets and her head was carefully positioned on the pillow Sissi seemed to mellow. All the tension flowed out of her, but her eyes remained large black orbs. So Sherlock started to read to her. The story was strange to him, the structure and style even more. A strange mesh of long and short sentences, seriousness and puns. But after a while Sherlock found he was enjoying himself, the cadence of the words coaxing the tension from his own body. And when he looked up Sissi’s eyes were closed, her hand firmly around her stuffed toy and every breath as relaxed as could be. 

 

Sissi did not remember what happened, or if she did she kept quiet about it. One thing that did not keep quiet was his phone. He had broken his brains over how on earth the blasted woman could have gotten to it, but in the end he had to acknowledge that he had been distracted and it could have happened in a number of ways. It was most probable that it happened during the time that Sissi was in his bedroom, he had left his coat on the chair and his phone had been in his coat until he retrieved it the following morning. It made sense, because Sherlock was unsure about what else could have Sissi act like a frightened animal. Adler breaking and entering seemed like a very sound reason to be scared. And she had broken and entered simply to program her phone number into his phone and put a downright mind-numbing ringtone with it. 

 

Sherlock really wished the woman wasn’t so...so...so. Horrible. Why on earth would someone program a breathy sigh as a ringtone? Did she want to annoy him, or was she alluding to having sex with him? Either way, it was downright tasteless. He pointedly did not respond to any of her texts even though they made Sherlock quite curious. It felt like a pleasant sort of revenge to not give in to her hounding. 

 

She wanted to play with him, he was sure. She needed another thing to toy with, to bat around and watch them dance. Sherlock was curious, he had to admit. She was clever and beautiful and perfect. He wanted to put his teeth in her and poke his nose everywhere until he found the flaws and the imperfections. But he wouldn’t, because he knew somewhere along the way he would be stepping into a trap and there would be no escaping her, or Moriarty. He would not be the fly that got caught in the web because it shone so alluringly. 

  
  


Sherlock continued to ignore his phone and time seemed to fly around him. His relationship with Sissi was cooling. They did not spend so much time together though she did sit in on cases. He did not ask to take over from him again and she did not offer. She stopped questioning him as well. Simply reading through the books and taking notes upon notes. Something inside him gave a pang when he thought of it, like it did not like the distance forming. But he was glad, he was unsure what had happened in the last weeks, but he did not like it. He didn't. The pang stayed. Sissi had started spending more and more time with Molly, sometimes only coming back when dinner was long over.

 

Sherlock was unsure what Sissi saw in Molly, but both of them seemed to enjoy their companionship enormously. Molly always smiled a smile that warmed Sherlock to his toes even if it wasn't directed at him and Sissi's steps got surer and bouncier when she was around Molly.  Molly didn't seem to mumble so much, or backtrack in the middle of her sentences. Sherlock pointedly ignored the feeling of loss that crept up on him sometimes. Mycroft hounded him about the pictures sometimes, his face drawn and his skin paler than usual. 

 

Something was bothering him, but Sherlock cared too little to find out. He had fallen into the trap of caring for a while and he was determined not to fall in it again. It was silly anyway, they weren't alike and she would never be a consulting detective, Adler had proven that soundly enough. The blasted woman was still texting him, asking him out to dinner every single day. As if he would respond after she was being so incredibly annoying. He poured himself into the cases and tried even harder to dredge up anything on Moriarty. He had a way in now, he had Adler. It didn't help much though, especially since he didn't want to meet the scheming dominatrix. Sherlock Holmes would not fall in any trap now, he would keep his eyes open and his emotions locked away. They were a liability anyway. 

 

Christmas came and Sherlock was in an unusually bad mood. It chafed in all the wrong ways that they wanted him to put down his work and socialise. Like it had any use or sense to do so. Be merry and normal and boring. Sissi looked mortified when Mrs. Hudson suggested it and he took delight in that. Good, she would be absolutely miserable, she deserved it. A soft voice murmured he was being irrational and that she hadn't done anything wrong. Sherlock ignored it, he was good at ignoring the voices in his head. And then his oaf of a housekeeper had invited John and his fiancé. Sherlock wondered how long this one would last. Most of his girlfriends bowed out after a couple months, but not this one, this one lasted apparently. He was looking forward to deducing her. 

 

Sissi was fretting, like her first days in Baker Street. Alternating between manic energy and dead quiet. She had flung her notebook against the wall in frustration, Sherlock was utterly surprised by that. She wasn't prone to outbursts in any way and he had been keeping tab on all sharp instruments in the house, so it wasn't that either. But either way, she was deeply unhappy. Sherlock managed to convince himself he didn't want to know why. 

 

The only thing he could do to drown out the horrible chatter is to play. If he sticks to Christmas songs no-one will tell him off for it. John was flustered, his cheeks flushed from the alcohol he was consuming at a rapid rate that told Sherlock he was unhappy or uncomfortable. The man was alternating between acting overly familiar with him or strangely distant. Sherlock wondered when he had decoupled from John. They had been so close and it felt so good and so natural, but now every time he looked at him there was only a stranger.

 

A stranger who worked in a practise and was studying for surgeon, so that he could find his daily dose of danger and adrenaline in a way that did not endanger him personally. Sherlock felt that it should still sting, but the brusqueness was really only habit by now. Sherlock really did not care for John any more, nor for his fiancée. She was a nice thing, blond hair and a pretty face and she was adequately eager to meet John’s old life. Her warm attitude was rapidly cooling when it came to Sherlock, aided by some snide remarks. The deductions he kept for himself, John didn't need to have his life turned around, since that would probably mean Sherlock’s would as well.

 

Sissi simply looked supremely miserable, sitting in the corner of the couch and tucking her whole body away from the people in the room. There was a cup of tea in her hand and she was clinging to it like it would solve all her problems. Unlike him, Sissi did not want to be impolite or rude. So she had left her headphones in her room and was now steadily spending her energy. Sherlock could see it flow out of her with every second passing. 

 

His eyes snagged on the embroidery of her blouse. She was wearing one of the skirts, but had spent the free hours she allotted herself carefully embroidering the lapels and edges of the plain white but exquisitely tailored thing. It was now adorned with leaves and vines in muted tones of red and orange echoed by her hair. The stitches so small and even that he could still picture her, sitting over the embroidery hoop with her nose nearly against the fabric. 

 

He looked away, covering the twang his heart gave with another flourish of strings. Mrs. Hudson was delighted, Lestrade looked sort of lonely standing in the doorway to the kitchen with a pensive look on his face. Sherlock managed to forget the awkwardness of it all for one second, letting his guard down for a split second to enjoy the feeling of some of his favourite people being around him. And then Molly came in. 

 

He wasn't entirely sure what happened after that, his guard slamming down too hard and the sudden feeling of detachment made everything blurry. He knew he made Molly cry, but he couldn't remember how he did it, or why he was in the morgue, with Mycroft at his side. Where was Sissi? She should be here, she was his... Sherlock stopped himself on time and looked at the body on the slab. Molly was uncharacteristically hesitant and soft about the corpse and Sherlock felt it had to be because he upset her. 

 

'Show the rest of her.' 

 

Molly hesitated again but complied and Sherlock slammed into cold hard reality again. 'That's her,' he ground out and swept outside again. Mycroft was acting silly, but Sherlock barely noticed. He was trying too hard to chase after the blessed detachment he had been hoping for the last age. The cigarette helped, but not enough. 

 

But instead of detachment, depression came. Sherlock welcomed it like an old friend. It was more unpleasant than dissociation, but it was good enough for him. It did not quell his creativity, or at least not in ways that were painful. It simply meant his violin saw more use than usual and Sherlock had no problems with that. It meant that not feeling anything was suddenly a lot easier and he needed it. 

  
The chaos had to stop, the swirling of emotions and the strange sensation when he looked Siss’s way. It wasn't pride exactly, what he felt when she did something exceptional. But Sherlock couldn't say what it was, he didn't want to investigate it. He simply wanted it gone. The haze of grey over everything accomplished that nicely. Even the fact that the papers were becoming increasingly scathing about his performances didn't elicit hurt from him any more. It was simply dull all day. Greyness blending with darkness and memory pleasantly elusive. The only thing that evoked a faint thread of worry was the fact that Sissi was being pulled alongside him. He could see the dark clouds settle over her as days went by, but he shoved the sharp silver guilt aside and sank into blessed quiet again. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I can't write on the fic I'm working on at the moment, have another chapter!

There was a knife gone from the kitchen block. Sherlock's world slammed into colour again, the haze of grey suddenly lifted and all his emotions pouring from the cracks. They got put away with determination. He had to think now, he had to do something. The smell of blood invaded his nose again, the heaviness of it, the tang and the terror that came with it. Guilt. 

And then he was on the top of the stairs, with no idea how he came to be there. He had to shake his head to get rid of the phantom. There was no blood, he didn't know if he was too late this time. He could still stop it. The door seemed to open of its own accord and then the sight that met him was not the one he had nightmares about. The knife was on the bed and Sissi had her back turned on it with a determined but slightly desperate air. Her fingernails were digging into her flesh and Sherlock suspected from the way she held her head she had been hitting her head with her fist, or perhaps slamming it into the wall. 

The adrenaline started to fade with each breath Sherlock took. No emergency. She hadn't hurt herself yet. All he had to do was put her together again. Apologize. The knife went back to its rightful place and Sherlock went straight for the book with the bookmark and trudged up the stairs again. 

It didn't seem to do much, Sissi stayed unresponsive and still. But a part of Sherlock felt that maybe she would hear the apology in his actions. He had to try at least. The focus on the book kept his own feelings away, but they were right around the corner, he could feel it. But they weren't overwhelming him yet, weren't drowning him in colour and chaos and pain.  _ You really need to find a decent coping method, _ admonished Mycroft. Sherlock ignored it, letting the words carry him away. 

Sissi had changed at some point when Sherlock looked up. When had that bloody book become so absorbing? She was lying in bed now, burrowed under the covers and curled up in a ball.  She wasn't sleeping yet, but her breath wasn't as shallow as before and there was colour in her face again. Sherlock edged his way out of the room, feeling better than he had in weeks.  And then there was a woman in his apartment. The Woman. 

Her hair was wet from the rain and she was smiling at him. Sherlock was surprised it wasn't simply all tooth and warning. It was a rather sweet smile, a nice change with her angular features. Why had he not heard her come in? There weren't any signs of a forced entry but the carpet was slightly wet at the window. He really should do something about that, the flat was horribly easy to break into. Even wound up CIA agents managed it, it was ridiculous. Adler was grinning now and she set herself down in one of the chairs. 

'What are you thinking of, pretty boy?' 

Sherlock scowled at her. 'The deplorable lack of security my flat has,' he ground out. 

She grinned. 'Oh, don't worry, I'm exceptional at breaking and entering. Now, if I could have my phone back?' 

Sherlock was unsure what had happened, but now they had another guest and she was sleeping in his bed. He had given the phone, in the haze of depression he had ignored it completely. Now though, his curiosity was slowly rising. He saw her typing on it all the time, but she always turned away before he could lay eyes upon whatever she was doing. He was getting glimpses sometimes. A string of numbers. Sherlock felt she had to be doing it on purpose, wanting him to figure it out. And he was falling for it, completely. It couldn't hurt, could it? 

He almost had the code together now, methodically finding out the next number every time he was allowed a peek at the screen. Sissi didn't notice the bizarre dance happening under her nose. She was still depressed and Sherlock didn't know what to do about it. Unlike him, her moods dragged on. He bounced back easily. The wash of colour and emotions coming back fast and hard when he wished it to. 

The same did not go for Sissi. She was still wrapped in a cocoon of negativity. If Sherlock squinted, he could almost see it around her. She was still embroidering her clothing though, it seemed to be an outlet. Mycroft had provided her with the means to make her own clothing, but she hadn't touched any of it. Irene did not bother Sissi, or the other way around. They simply slid around each other and pretended the other did not exist. Sherlock marvelled at the ease with which they did it and decided that he did not understand women in any way. 

Morning found him with the complete code on a piece of paper and a toothy smile too near for comfort. Irene was flitting around him, completely aware of the fact that the deducing would soon begin. Sherlock didn't really feel like telling her that he had it figured out by the time he had half of the thing. Having it whole before him was really just insurance. Assurance of the fact that he had it right. Something was niggling at the back of his mind, something about Mycroft, which meant it was really not important. 

* * *

It had been important and Sherlock felt horrible about giving Mycroft so much trouble. Not that he would admit it to anyone. Instead he took satisfaction from the fact that Miss Irene Adler had tried to play the game and lost. Rather spectacularly. The things he said to her were echoing back to him.  _ 'The chemistry is incredibly simple, and very destructive... You should never let it rule your head... Dangerous disadvantage...'    _

Was it? Was it really? Sherlock sank into a plush chair in a side room. Thank heavens for Mycroft's extravagant home, he doubted anyone would find or disturb him, the servants were very attuned to Holmesian needs. He needed to think, to stop and consider. The episode with Adler had shown very clearly that  if anything was destructive, it was putting his feelings away. And ignoring intuition too. 

And he knew that dammit, his whole profession was built on intuition, making the connections that felt most prudent. He couldn't prove half of what came out of his mouth, couldn't tell them how he knew it. Yet the lesson had not been driven home in all those years. Not fully sunken in. Until now. He should have seen it coming, he shouldn't have thrown reason out of the window and followed the trail of breadcrumbs so sweetly laid in front of him. Shouldn't have shown off to someone he didn't even like. Why hadn't he made the connection to the things going on around him? Really, even idiots in love didn't act so stupidly. 

A glass of water had appeared by his elbow. The servant already long gone. Sherlock emptied it with long gulps and found himself wishing for something stronger. Maybe alcohol would solve his problems for him, like it did for everyone else. It wouldn't, Sherlock knew. He had been drunk once in his life and it had been resoundingly horrible the next day. 

When he looked up next, there was a glass of whiskey and tumbler full of the same amber liquid. It couldn't hurt could it? Just one glass, so his thoughts would not keep chasing their own tails so much? It tasted surprisingly good, smooth  and deep and complex in the same sip. The burn wasn't a burn, but more a soft caress of his throat. Gentle and fleeting. The glass was empty must faster than Sherlock felt it should be, so he took another one. The colour of it hypnotised him, was exactly like it should. The amber was precisely how it tasted, like sweet honey mixed with so many other things. 

The second glass was gone in a blink, the taste only seemed to get better. Sherlock wanted more of it wanted to explore the hidden depths of it with his tongue. Feel out every shifting variation. Sherlock could feel himself unspooling slowly, like the tight coil of thread he was was slowly getting wound loose by expert fingers. The world around him seemed to soften, the room suddenly more pleasant than he had ever thought it could be. 

He could stay here forever, trapped in amber barn-stone. The sting of failure was lessened until it was only in the background, providing contrast to the languid contentment he was feeling. The questions hadn't gone, or the thoughts chasing each other through his head without pause. But they felt tamer now, easily handled. It didn't matter as much here, in eternity shrouded in warm soft colours. Mother would scoff at him, everyone would, really. Drunkenness was frowned upon as a method of coping, but Sherlock felt he could cope like this. 

Cope with Sissi, with the lightning feelings she sent through him, unaware of his struggle. She didn't even notice how smart she was, how quick she could be or how nimble her fingers were, manipulating needle and thread. She was inexperienced, but she hadn't seen him or her murdered in a stately house in Belgravia. Looking back, Sherlock saw the danger they were in only now. Easy to discount a man with a gun.

_ 'Dangerous disadvantage...'  _

Was it? Was it really? He could see Adler’s eyes filling with shock and fear. Murmuring about how she hadn't meant it. It had certainly been a disadvantage to her, the one to do her in, wrap her up and send her to her death. Caring was for the weak, but didn't he already care? For Sissi, for John even for Mycroft. It seemed like everything went wrong simply because he denied it, because he went against it. Wasn't anyone around him already in danger? He was sure more people than simply Moriarty had eyes on him, waiting to strike him down. Maybe all those eyes had simply employed Moriarty for it, so that their nemesis would go out with a bang and unaware they ever had a hand in his demise. 

He knew from an early age that doing this, being a consulting detective would bring people against him. He knew it was dangerous and ran towards it, but the danger was always on the background, around the corner. Not in front of him like it was now. Sherlock hated the awareness, the sharpness of it. More of the amber had to help, more absolution for his sins. 

Did it matter? Did it matter when all the people he loved were already in danger, already threatened simply by being around him? Would it change anything to come out and say it? Acknowledge that he was in fact not a sociopath, but a human being with flaws. A person that loved and hurt and felt everything so keenly it had to be transmuted into crystal and stone for him to survive it. Mycroft wouldn't be surprised and Sissi already knew, he was sure of it. John would be shocked no doubt, maybe feel betrayed. Betrayed of his image of a hero of stone. It wouldn't matter to Mycroft, it wouldn't change things between them, he would still simply be a blunt instrument to use. Maybe a little blunter than before, but nothing that would give his brother qualms. 

But it would change everything to him. Everything. Did he even know how to smile to anyone? Did he even know how to express feelings without sounding insincere and stilted? Sherlock saw the room darkening in front of his eyes, so he took another glass. He wanted the amber back, the soft focus, and he wanted the tension to stay away. He didn't want to feel inadequate and stupid. Didn't want pity and sighs over being different and strange. He didn't want to be the stranger, the one to be included because he was so strange and altruism comes easily even to children. He didn't want any of that, but it came with the territory. It could come with feeling, with being human instead of stone. The tumbler was gone from the table when he turned around for more and so was the glass. And then there was nausea. 

* * *

Mycroft spent a long time in the quiet dark that emerged when he put his hands over his face. Adler was long gone, it was really only clean up after Sherlock had soundly shattered the woman. The sound of her voice breaking was little comfort for the mess his brother had made. And it was a mess, a horrible one with a side dish of confirmed suspicions and a smidgen of failure. He simply sat there, breathing, trying to give himself just one moment of peace before the consequences would make themselves known. One moment of quiet before the no doubt sleepless nights that the fallout would bring. 

It wasn't to be, since the quiet behind his hands let him listen to the sounds of the room. The rustle of the leaves and wind outside, the crackling of the fire and the breathing... 

Breathing. 

A part of Mycroft wanted to cry. He wanted to be by himself, to have a drink and wallow in the misery of a plan gone wrong. Then he realised who it had to be. Sherlock had left and Adler had been escorted out, so there was really only one person left. 

Sissi. Mycroft was surprised she was still there, in all the excitement and then the negotiations she had been forgotten almost entirely. She was too quiet to draw attention to herself, it was easy to lose track of her and she hadn't exactly taken part in the proceedings. Simply sat there, quietly observing. 

And now she was pouring whiskey in a glass for him. He wanted to refuse, to say that he had too much already, but he only had one glass earlier and he needed the calm the alcohol could bring him, no matter how artificial it was. 

There was a frown on Sissi's face and Mycroft felt it looked unsightly on her. It marred the pristine perfection that her clothes gave her and made him wonder how he could make her smile. She wasn't pretty like Adler, there was no glamour or danger in her features that got men drooling. But Mycroft felt that if he ever had someone, she would have to look like Sissi. The glass tinkled when she set it down in front of him, throwing him off the train of thought. 

Her frown had morphed into something more pensive now, like she was wondering if she should speak or not. Her hand was hovering over an empty glass and the tumbler, it seemed like an age, but she went for the carafe with water after all. She looked at him hesitantly, standing near the table with the glass in her hand. She expects I won't allow her to sit at my table. The thought rankled and Mycroft wasn't sure what to do with the knowledge, so he waved a hand in invitation. 

The silence continued, neither of them ready to voice any of their thoughts. Sissi only looked more and more worried as time went by. Mycroft was waiting for the moment the dam would break and the whole story would come tumbling out. It didn't take very long. 

'I'm worried about Sherlock,' Sissi said, and for once it wasn't softly spoken, she sounded confident and determined. It gave Mycroft a feeling of foreboding and the sting of failure once again. 

'So am I,' he said and waited for the bomb to drop. 'I don't know much about this Moriarty figure, but I think I know where he's heading.' Mycroft's stomach clenched with dread. She had figured that out, would she figure out who set Moriarty free again? He had to be guarding his face less than usual, because the frown appeared on her face again. 

The glass got set on the table with a clunk. 'Oh,' it sounded defeated and surprised. Mycroft wanted to apologize, to explain, to say that it was a terrible mistake and he would live with the consequences for the rest of his life. Before he could force any words out of his mouth the frown changed into something else. It wasn't pity and she wasn't angry. 

There was a hand on his, briefly. A fleeting touch of compassion but it felt like a weight was lifted off his shoulders. Sissi stood up and started pacing now, it looked so much like something Sherlock would do that Mycroft couldn't suppress a smile. She didn't notice thankfully, caught up in her thoughts. 

'It's ok, we can fix it, I just need to figure out how.' Those words made all Mycroft's guilt disappear, blown away by the fresh winds that Sissi brought. Sherlock’s world may have changed, but so had his. He wasn't alone any more. It wasn't like he could ever talk to her about what he was doing or what was going on, but she was there, quietly doing her own thing. And she wasn't even angry. Mycroft knew how John would have reacted. 

John wouldn't have shouted, but he would have said the right cutting things and he wouldn't even have known that Mycroft was bleeding. John with all his medical knowledge seemed to forget that there was no such thing as sociopaths. Just an outdated term, long scratched out of the books. That Mycroft and his brother were just as human as the rest of them. That they bled just as hard. Mycroft preferred Sissi. 

She was still pacing, even slamming her palm into her head. 'Think think think! I need to think like that vile man. What would he do?' She was still for a moment and then gave a full  body shudder in contempt and disgust. 

'Ugh. Ok. Mister Moriarty has a tendency for theatrics, to be sure. He could have just murdered me, but instead he went for the most painful way to die. He could have kidnapped me and used me as a hostage. Instead he let me jump a course at gunpoint. So what is he going to do with Sherlock...'

Mycroft felt he had to contribute something, even if he had mulled on the same point for months now. 'Hit him where it hurts?' he suggested, fighting down the urge to start pacing himself.

'Hit him where it hurts, hit him where it hurts...' she kept mumbling, mumbling  and pacing. A flurry of activity to try and think even clearer, sharper, faster. The words heard through a recorder flit through Mycroft's mind, hateful words, insane no doubt. He couldn’t help but speak them out loud. 

'Burn him, burn the heart out of him.' 

The pacing stopped suddenly and she made a sound that was more like letting out a breath than the joy of discovery. Sissi whirled around and catapulted herself to the nearest chair, not settling herself in it, like Mycroft expected but flopping down on it with a surprising amount of energy. She took hold of the paper on the table and got up again, bouncing on her feet. 

'It's the papers! God, it makes sense now.' 

Mycroft couldn’t help but stare in wonderment and draw parallels between her and Sherlock once again. Their manner was so alike he expected them to be siblings, if he didn't know better. 

Sissi slowly realised there was another person in the room who in fact did not have powers of mind reading and couldn’t simply follow her train of thought. Unlike Sherlock she looked apologetic about it, all the manic energy stilling for a moment while her face fell. She took a deep breath, clearly working back, reversing until she was at the point from where it started. 

'The papers have been slandering him for weeks. I thought it was odd because in the time I've been with him he hasn't made a single mistake in his cases. Even before that, I looked it up. They're digging in his history, going years back to find mistakes and things that he did wrong. Why do that?' 

Understanding came to him and it wasn't a pleasant thing. It made his stomach sink, the world suddenly darker than it was before. How he wished that wasn’t possible. 

'Moriarty wants to destroy his reputation, make him out for a fraud and then kill him.' 

Sissi looked up with something like surprise in her eyes. She started pacing again. 

'No... No he wouldn't just kill him. That wouldn't be fun.' 

The disgust flitted over her face again and now she was shaking her arms as if trying to get rid of the feeling. 

'He would want Sherlock to kill himself. I don't know how, I don't know how it fits, but he would want Sherlock to kill himself, he wants to win and it has to be in the most spectacular way.' All the energy suddenly drained out of her, like the plug had been pulled. 

It was silent for a while. Mycroft was thinking, trying to find ways to delay the inevitable, to stop it, to stop Moriarty. He wasn't getting very far, coming to dead ends, again, again and again. But considering the second option was out, he wasn't going to let that happen. He made a mistake, he would solve it too. With or without help. He wasn't sure what Sissi was doing, she had her face in her hands, sunken into what was almost a ball on the chair. Her voice was muffled when it came, voicing what Mycroft did not want to say. 'We can't stop him, we can't reason with him. We don't have any leverage and giving into any demands he would make would be worse. We can't stop it, but what if we make it happen?' 

Her voice was muffled through her hands and Mycroft hoped he misunderstood her train of thought, but it was logical, thinking about it. 'Make it happen?' he asked, with a vague hope that the answer would be different. 

'Give him a death, just not Sherlock. There's no other way we'll get to him. No other way to stop this before it happens.' The confidence was gone and the energy as well. Mycroft wanted to hug her, to tell her that it would be all right, that he would solve it and she wouldn't have to think any more about it. Wouldn't have to do what she was thinking of. He went in circles again, trying to find another solution, another way. It took an eternity of silence, the clock in the corner ticking away seconds like sand in an hourglass. 

The conclusion was that there was no other option, no way to stop the man without giving him what he wanted. Mycroft wanted to hit something, turn the clock back and murder the spider himself. When he looked up Sissi was looking at him, her eyes riveted on his face, her expression a cross between acceptance and fear. His expression had apparently said enough. 

'I'm not worth anything, not like Sherlock. Not a key player in anything or important to the safety of the nation. I'm not even worth anything to Sherlock, but Moriarty thinks we're together.' Mycroft wanted to contradict her, to show her the evidence and tell her Sherlock did care, but he couldn't open his mouth. 'We can get him that way, make him think he's destroying Sherlock by killing me.' 

She was silent again. One of the servants came in, Mycroft didn't know how much longer it had been since they last spoke. He didn't care. There was food set in front of him. Mycroft didn't touch it. He wanted to solve this. Wanted to fix it. Eating wasn't important, he had made a mistake and he would solve it. He had to. When he surfaced from his thoughts again someone was tapping politely on his shoulder. His housekeeper was looking at him, there was a stern look about her that gave him pause. 

'You need to eat, Sir,' she said, and her tone brooked no argument. 'It's late and you will likely be up all night again. The lady is sleeping, we'll wake her up when you need her.' So he ate and drank. The housekeeper smiled at him when she came to collect his plate and gestured towards the fire. There was a book on a table near it, with a bookmark half way. Mycroft knew what it meant. His good Mrs. Fitzgibbons knew she could not get him to sleep when there was a crisis to be resolved, but she knew how to make him relax. To put the issue to rest for an hour or two, to give his mind and racing thoughts a break so he could regroup and tackle whatever was bothering him. Mycroft sat down and dutifully started to read. 

Sissi walked in again just moments after he had reached the bookmark and was closing his book. Her hair was a tousled mess and there was still sleep in her eyes, but she looked better than before. Mycroft analysed it for a bit, she looked defeated in a way, trodden on and put through a wringer. Something in her eyes sent a flash of realisation through him. She was ready to die, to actually die. She didn't know he had been plotting how to fake it from the moment the words were out of her mouth. Heavens knew what she had been thinking in the silence.

He slowly got up out of the chair and stepped towards her. Sissi startled when he pulled her into an embrace, but she didn't pull away. She seemed to sink into his arms, soaking in the warmth and the gesture. 'I'll be damned if I let you jump to your death, you'll jump, but you won't die.' It sounded like an oath and as far as Mycroft was concerned, it was one. He had made one mistake and he wouldn't make another. When he pulled away Sissi still looked shocked and taken by surprise. And then she started to laugh and doubled over. One hand grabbed for purchase on a nearby chair and it took a while for the wheezing to die down. When she looked up there was mirth in her eyes and a smile still gracing her lips.

'I didn't  even think of that! God, I figure out Moriarty's cunning plan, but I can't think of faking a suicide. Bloody genius I am.'

That made Mycroft smile briefly before turning serious again. 'It'll have to be planned to the second. And if Jim catches wind, it's over.' 

Sissi nodded. 'And we can't let him escape this time either, he has to die as well. Actually dead.' 

The words stung just like his failure did, but they were true. Let Moriarty go and the whole scheme would be for the pleasure of it, instead of actually catching the vermin. He nodded. 'We have some time and I don't think either of us would blab, would we?' He got a smile for his troubles. The table had notebooks and pens on it, plus a ream of paper. By the time light was showing through the windows there was a beginning of a plan. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you go, another chapter! 
> 
> I'm a little insecure and unsure about the rest of the fic, so updating will likely take a while after this as I take my time to see what I can improve so I'm satisfied.

Usually the quiet sounds of a restaurant would calm Sissi's nerves. The murmur of the guests and the clink of silverware soothed her. She could feel the buzz of the kitchen and the contentment radiating from the people around her. This time, though, all the noise set her on edge. It didn’t matter that they had a plan, that everything was examined and they'd gone over the tiniest details again and again. Mycroft believed in her but she wasn't sure if she could do it.He'd done the hard work. He'd set up this meeting, played out the sad story of someone who wanted to die for Sherlock to keep him safe. The whole scam relied on assumptions, on what Moriarty thought she and Sherlock were to each other. Learning he'd fallen for it only filled her with dread and surprise.  


She couldn't act very well, that was soundly proven. But now everything was hinging on her acting skills. There wasn't any room for doing it wrong, she could only get it right. She had only one shot at this and it had to be perfect. She wasn't counting on the fact that Moriarty was blinded by his ideas and she didn't dream of superior intelligence or wit. She was playing the game and she had to win, because losing would be condemning so many more people. 

And then he was in the other seat and Sissi's heart stopped for a moment. He didn't look right through her, like Sherlock would sometimes. He just gave her one look and started on his food. Sissi breathed a sigh of relief in her head and tried to start on her own plate. It all tasted like ash in her mouth and Sissi was glad that Mycroft had picked a restaurant that was quality if not something he would ever attend. Tonight would no doubt tarnish the place for her completely. Thankfully her company stayed quiet all the way through to the dessert. She was trying to show interest in the cheesecake in front of her when he started speaking. 

'So, bird, what brings you here?' His voice sounded like nails on a chalkboard to her, the accent strange and grating. 

It sounded American, but wrong. Sissi couldn't help but fixate on it. Something to hold on to, to anchor to reality and to remind her of what she had to do. 'I...' Did her voice just break? 'Sherlock...He shouldn't have to...I..I...' Sissi hated her own voice, hated her throat, hated every bit of her that made words come out so inadequately. But it was enough, by the way the man's face lit up. His face turned into something that might be called compassion on anyone else, but had to be a sad facsimile on his. She wanted to look away, everything about him was like sandpaper over her nerves. His face, schooled into features of an ordinary person, instead of a cold-blooded mercenary with a streak of insanity. The voice and the expensive clothes. She wanted to say that he didn't deserve it, the hours that went into it. That he didn't deserve the food on his plate and the shoes on his feet. He didn't deserve her lousy acting and all the time that Mycroft had. _Oh god, don't think about that. Get your game on, there's a show to run._

So she smiled back and plaintively asked the waiter for a glass of water. It looked like water and it smelled like water, but she knew it would taste bad. Mycroft had prepared her for that, thankfully. So she drank it like it was water and not the bitter and vile thing that was pooling in her stomach. The band started and Sissi watched the gears turn in the spider's head. He wasn't a man, she didn't want to think of him as human. 'Since this will be my last night, would you treat me like Sherlock would have?' The words 'if he loved me' were unsaid, but Sissi could see Moriarty falling for them anyway. She was done lying for now, she just had to time the dances. He had his face in 'pleasant gentleman' mode now and was getting up from his chair with obvious purpose. 'Would you like a dance with me?' 

It was as repulsive as she thought it would be, the dances. She had to get Mycroft to dance with her now, to get rid of the lingering feeling of that man's hands on her, the horrible platitudes he murmured in her ears. It was worse outside. It was a slow waltz too, too sensual and romantic. And the sign. The plan was silly really, when Mycroft suggested it she had laughed almost as hard as the night of her proposal. It sounded like something out of a spy film. And a badly done one at that. There had to be problems with it, she wouldn't be able to eat and wouldn't it affect her too? Mycroft had smiled and told her not to worry, chemistry was a thing of wonder after all. So Sissi took a deep breath and looked Moriarty in his eyes. The music slowed and the kiss was exactly as horrible as she thought it would be. 

It kicked her head into gear though, emotion slowly seeping out until there was only clear and empty skies. She had to time it right now, one more revolution, another one. On the third she slowed enough to break the rhythm and stop them. 'I think I, I want to go now.' 

There was a second of glee before it got hidden away again. Sissi felt oddly thankful that he was willing to keep up the charade of it. Pretend that he wasn't going to break the arrangement as soon as he could. He actually helped her up the ledge of the building. The music continued, she was swaying with it softly, keeping time in her head. It didn't need to be timed perfectly any more, but it was hard to stop. There was a figure in the distance and Sissi's blood turned to ice. Sherlock had to have figured it out. Maybe one of the homeless had told him. She couldn't turn back now, but it was harder to put her foot over the emptiness knowing someone she actually cared about was watching. She felt the odd urge to say something, even though it wouldn't be heard and lip-reading had to be impossible at this distance. 

'Het spijt me.' 

She didn't get the satisfaction of seeing Jim Moriarty keel over behind her. Blackness claimed her before she hit the ground. 

* * *

Sherlock watched her fall. He felt detached, in an odd and painful way. He wanted to rush to her, to help to stop it and oh god she was jumping. The deductions about falling speed and mortality he couldn't stop, so they echoed around his head. Fatal, Fatal, Fatal. Only a person with extensive training might survive that and then with major injuries. It wouldn't be surprising if they died of complications anyway. Sherlock was running towards her without heed for the facts. He didn't want it to be true, for once in his life he wanted to be wrong. To be so utterly completely wrong that she would be standing on the pavement and giving him a sheepish smile. So he could shout at her for scaring him, to hug her and hold her. She wasn't standing, she was a heap of human surrounded by shocked bystanders and there was a paramedic rushing past him, in evening wear. Disturbed during his dinner, must have seen it happening. There was the sound of a stretcher rattling on the pavement, only heard by him. Near Bart’s, must have been alerted as well. He should have called 112 the moment he saw her on the roof, but he didn't, why didn't he? 

Sherlock couldn't feel his legs any more, he was stumbling now, swaying on his feet but still getting closer. The stretcher had arrived now, the paramedic in his fancy clothes coordinating with the people in their white uniforms. Sherlock wanted to be closer, to feel her pulse and tell her to stop the acting. Stop being silly, it wasn't funny. People can't act being dead. Their chests would rise and fall and hers wasn't. He was almost near her now and there were stars appearing in his vision.  _ Shock, you're going into shock Sherlock, _ said Mycroft. Sherlock blinked rapidly, trying to get back his clarity but it wasn't coming back. One more step and he would be able to...To do what exactly? And then someone was holding him back, an arm around his shoulder, steadying him, keeping him still. Someone was talking to him but Sherlock didn't hear it. The rattle of the stretchers wheels on pavement started again and it shook Sherlock to the bone. Whoever was holding him removed their arm. Probably intending to turn me around and look me in the eye, Sherlock thought. He took a step towards the sound, intending to follow and then he hit the pavement. 

The scrape of it hurt, but the blurriness of his sight still wouldn't leave. Someone was kneeling beside him, he could see their knees, there was the sound of someone speaking, but he couldn't make out the words. Were they telling him to get up? To take it easy? Sherlock didn't know. It was hard to remember what he wanted to do. The rattling was getting quieter and he felt a brief surge of panic. He wasn't sure how he got up, but he was limping after the stretcher. He tried to go faster, but the hand clamped down on his elbow if he did and his body ached so badly he had to slow down.

When Sherlock looked to the side he found that there was a man supporting him, elderly and dressed neatly but not in a suit. It was a hand-knitted jacket and trousers with a crease pressed with military precision. The man had to be a veteran, there were callouses on his hands and the start of a scar on the skin visible at the collar of his shirt. A shoulder injury, just like John. John had blond hair, this man’s was grey and he didn't have a lot of it left, but it was neatly combed. He was talking still but the words did not make sense. He kept missing them, just blobs of sound with no meaning. The rhythm told Sherlock he was likely singing and suddenly he felt a wave of gratitude flow over him. It almost made his knees buckle, but the hand tightened and he stayed upright. 

It seemed ages but at the same time it was only a blink of an eye before they were at the hospital. Sherlock was trying to find his card but his fingers trembled too much. He tried to speak to the attendant that was hovering near them. It came out garbled and wrong. 'I want to see her, I have access.' The card kept slipping out of his fingers. The damned man shook his head. He said something that had to mean that he couldn't go in, so Sherlock stood there feeling suddenly and utterly lost. 

This new John slowly lead him to a chair nearby, he was insistent too, and strong. So Sherlock gave in and followed him. The chair made it all sink in, in a strange way. He was never in Barts like this, not like a visitor waiting for the whims of fate and doctors. He was only in the lab or in the morgue and he was never at mercy of anyone there. His fingers wouldn't stop trembling, so he clenched them into fists. It only transferred it inside of him, but that was better than showing open emotion. His vision was still blurred and the hallway seemed to flow like waves on the sea. It didn't stop until he felt the hand of the new John on his arm, the contact made him look up. 

There was a cup of tea brandished in front of him. He took it and willed his hands still enough so the liquid would not slosh over the sides. The warmth of it made the world appear more real, made him feel less like a ghost and more like a person with a physical body. It hurt, but Sherlock was used to ignoring hurt. It was a reflex now, to feel it and to push it away until he was safe enough to feel it again. Sherlock felt like he would never be safe enough. Not after this. 

The vet was talking to someone. Someone familiar. Molly. He could pick up words now, but Molly's face said enough. She was as white as a sheet and her make-up was smeared. Dark streaks of mascara showed how every tear had run. Molly walked away at some point and Sherlock wondered briefly why she hadn't spoken to him. The new John crouched in front of him, accompanied by the creaking of joints. He looked intently at Sherlock and apparently judged him able to understand because he began to speak. 'If you want to see her, boy, you can now. I suggest that do you, she's not harmed.' 

Sherlock wanted to yell, to scream. She wasn’t harmed, but she was dead. Or a doctor would have come for them, not poor Molly. Instead he got up, his legs wobbly again, now from sitting still for so long. New John didn’t take his arm again, but he was close enough to help him down if it's needed. It would have annoyed Sherlock before, would have him batting the person away and speeding up, but now the only thing he could do was send a grateful smile. The man smiled back. 

In the end, he couldn't do it. Pulling the white sheet aside and seeing her face would mean accepting that she was dead and Sherlock couldn't. He couldn't accept it, he knew it was true, but he couldn't accept it. He thought he might never be able to. The New John only took it in stride. 

The mirror in the bathroom showed Sherlock in painful detail why Molly had turned her back. Half of his face was an angry mix of sand and stones from the pavement and his eyes were red, like he had been crying. Had he cried? Sherlock didn't know, already things were fading into oblivion, the edges of his memory tinged by exhaustion and shock. He couldn't remember the cab to Baker Street. He only registered he was home when the elderly man embraced him and left a piece of paper with his phone number on it in Sherlock’s hand. He spent a long time sitting in his chair staring at the wall, trying to make sense of what just happened. 

* * *

Mycroft stared at the photos in his hands. Sherlock looking like a zombie trying to get to a throng of people. Sherlock on a hospital chair, with trembling hands and tears in his eyes. He knew it would make his brother fall apart, but he hadn't expected to see him collapse so publicly. He wanted to relish in a plan well-executed, but the photos made it downright impossible. There was footage too, but he hadn't dared to take a look at it. 

Everything had gone well, Moriarty had been administered a lethal injection that he had supervised himself. The monster was dead, really dead. No question about it. A lot of people were unhappy with him for it, wanted interrogations and investigations, some had even wanted to use the piece of filth for operations. Mycroft had gladly refused and taken the choice out of their hands. 

The idea was insane, they would not be able to keep the man on a leash; if Mycroft couldn't do it, no-one could. Sissi was in his manor, since Sherlock would not on any account turn up there. He had a room fitted and a nurse and doctor on the premises. The initial reports said she hadn't suffered brain damage, thank heavens, but the rest of her injuries weren't light. Mycroft knew he shouldn't have hoped for little damage, but he had. She would need rehabilitation and not a little bit either. 

It could have been worse of course, she could have actually jumped to her death, instead of to hospitalisation. Still, Mycroft imagined she had to be in pain. The report said she had a concussion, along with fractured ribs, legs and ankles. And on top of that she had punctured her lung and the doctor said he wouldn't be surprised if she developed pneumonia. The list made him feel awful in sympathy. It was worth it though; they had reached their goal without a single death, all through meticulous timing and almost nothing else. Mycroft wondered absentmindedly what the reaction of the public would be, if they knew. They might hail her as a hero, or more likely make her out as a freak just like Sherlock. 

* * *

When Sissi woke up there was pain and nothing else. It felt like it had happened before, but she couldn't put her finger on the feeling, or explain it. There was a nurse at her side. She had a bland and friendly face but Sissi wanted to mutter at her angrily anyway. There was no need to wake her up, she was fine and if she slept, she wouldn't feel her whole body throbbing so much. The nurse smiled at her and patted her hand. Sissi growled. That did not evoke the reaction she expected. The woman only laughed and patted her hand some more. 

'Don't worry dear, we're just scanning one last time to be sure and then you can sleep as long as you want.' 

They did let her sleep and when she woke up again it was like emerging from the depths of a cave into the light. It was rather fitting that Mycroft was there. Just seeing him sitting there in his suit set Sissi's brain to work again. Coming back to reality was such a shock it almost felt like physical pain. She had survived the fall, that much was clear, but she had no idea how much time had passed. She didn't even know if they had succeeded. 

Mycroft looked tired. It wasn't as bad as before, but there were still circles under his eyes and his skin had an almost translucent quality to it. He smiled when he noticed she was awake. It looked stiff, but it wasn't one of his not-actually smiles. Sissi hoped that meant there was good news coming. 

She tried to speak, to say hello, but the only thing that happened was a coughing fit. It hurt too and she could see the smile dissolve into a pained expression. He even called the nurse on her, who simply adjusted a dial on her IV and left again. The pain started to lessen after a while, so that had to mean she was on painkillers. It took longer for Mycroft to start talking, Sissi wanted to greet him so badly, but she was afraid the pain would come back. So she waited, trying to catalogue the facts she did have. 

'The spider's dead and my best man is on dismantling the web,’ he said at last. 

Sissi admired his ability to say more than his words. It was a skill really, to pick out those sounds that meant something and then put them in an order that meant more than the sum. He could say so many things with one word and even more with a full sentence. And she always managed to understand him too. 

The news didn't make her as happy as she thought it would. She knew the best man in question had to be Sherlock and that brought to the forefront that he thought she was dead. Presumably, even the people who treated her didn't know. Only Mycroft Holmes was privy to that information and it made her feel so very lonely. They won and now she got to spend an undetermined amount of time on her own, to then face the anger that would likely come of admitting she had faked her death, no matter how necessary it was.

Mycroft seemed to sense her mood, because he shifted on his chair and then stood up to move it closer to the bed. 

'I will do my best to make this time enjoyable,' he murmured eyes fixed on the blanket covering her. 

That he would because he made a mistake stayed unsaid. The reassurance he would fix it and his frustration over the fact that it wasn’t fixed yet. She didn’t know when it would be, if it even could be. If it would ever go back to before or if things were now forever after. 

It stayed quiet for a long time, so Sissi listened to the beeps of the machinery around her and the drip of her IV and tried to quiet the panic that was slowly mounting. Mycroft interrupted a vivid imagination of Sherlock shouting at her, his voice chasing the images away. 

'I have pictures and film, if you want to see them.' 

She didn’t want to see them and found herself looking anyway. It was far from what she imagined. Not a stoic Sherlock identifying her body, but Sherlock with tears in his eyes and trembling hands. Not Sherlock unaffected and unfeeling as she imagined him, but shocked and torn to pieces. 

'I thought, I thought he didn't...' 

Mycroft simply put a hand over hers and squeezed. They watched the footage on the laptop together, hands entwined. She couldn’t tell when the tears had started coming, when the guilt had sneaked its way inside her and started gnawing at her bones. How could she have done this to Sherlock?  Mycroft just held her hand a little tighter and sat with her until the tears stopped.

* * *

Sherlock thought the world had stopped in the days after. Stopped because it had been deprived of a person pivotal to it. Reality was that he had made it stop. Dug his heels in the sand and put his whole weight behind it. It was sentimental rubbish and he needed it. He couldn't go on and he needed the world stopped in its tracks so he wouldn't drown. He ignored the calls, he ignored Mrs. Hudson's worried words. He ignored the knocks on the door and later the threats to ram it down. He had to open it for John, movements oddly mechanic even to him. There were all his people assembled: John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and even Mycroft, all in the cramped space of the hallway. He let them in, because closing the door in their faces would only make things worse. They all had looks of concern on their faces, apart from Mycroft, he looked thoroughly bored and was taking pictures of the apartment and sending texts. Sherlock wondered what he was up to and then decided that it didn't matter. 

They left after a while, after seeing that there were no drugs to be found anywhere and that Sherlock could not be persuaded to cheer up in any way, shape or form. The fact that he snapped at people when they touched any of his or Sissi's things might have done it too. Apparently that meant that he was his good self and they had no need to worry. It was preposterous but if it made them all leave him alone, Sherlock was fine with it. He wanted the quiet undisturbed peace back. He wanted to wallow in his misery and pick apart every moment he spent with Sissi for mistakes he made. It was almost like they were astonished by the fact that he displayed emotions, that he grieved over someone. He knew what grief was all right, it had held him in its grip so many times it was almost like welcoming an old friend. He knew what to do with it, with the emotions, he had to hide until the world started turning again. And they had made it turn, but Sherlock supposed there wasn't much difference. So he ate one of the meals that Sissi had frozen what seemed like ages ago and turned to the table. 

The New John’s phone number was on it, he was apparently called Jeremy, but before Sherlock could think about phoning him, he noticed that the scrap of paper wasn't in the same place any more. There was a photo under it now, grainy in the way that showed it was taken by a long zoom lens in low light conditions. It hadn't been there before his apartment had been invaded by well-meaning visitors. The subject was obscured by the phone number. He could only see what had to be the roof of a building, taken from slightly above. When he put it aside Sissi was revealed, in the middle of a dance with Moriarty. It made his blood run cold for a second, before he started taking in the details. 

Sissi looked uncomfortable and tense, as if ready to run, she was looking at Moriarty, but judging by the tilt of her head she was avoiding looking in his eyes. Moriarty just looked confident, maybe even victorious. Something about his stance made Sherlock think he was gloating about the situation, revelling in it. There was the tingling of a realisation at the back of Sherlock’s neck but there wasn't enough data to acknowledge it. His tormentor had to have known that, because the picture was heavier than paper should be and Sherlock found a USB-stick taped to the back of it. He sat down and rammed it into his laptop, dreading what he would see. Sherlock's eyes followed the sway of the waltz and felt his heart sink at the kiss. It was a bitter comfort that Sissi tensed even more when it happened. And then it went on and he had to watch her take a deliberate step off the edge. He couldn't help but whimper, wanting to stop it, rewind the tape and never let it happen. And then Moriarty sank to the ground and Sherlock felt like he had just been felled himself. 

Sherlock came to himself when the beep of the phone was blaring in his ear. 'Jeremy.' The man’s voice was calm and deep, balm to Sherlock's  ears. He didn't know what to say for a second. 'My friend...The one that...' The man made an affirmative noise, so Sherlock went on. 'She was a spy.' He wanted to say soldier, but civilians aren't soldiers and soldiers don't waltz. The man hummed and somehow it made Sherlock break open, his words spilling out. 'I didn't know, she sacrificed herself, to...to.' He has to stop and breathe, the implications suddenly sinking in. 

'She died for me, she was willing to die for me and I had no idea.' The rush of words died away and Sherlock felt emptier than in any of the days before. That was Jeremy's cue to start talking, the rumble seizing hold of him and washing the shock away, softening it into something distant that would only come back when the phone got put down. It wasn’t for a while. Jeremy talked about the war, about his mother radioing sightings and his father creating decoy villages in the dark. They never knew until Da was on his deathbed, confessing. 

He talks about his wife and his grandchildren. About his everyday life and about the wars that he has fought. About Suez, Brunei and the Troubles. Sherlock lets it come over him, rinsing away the bitter jealousy and the stinging grief. When the phone is put down the only thing that is left is calm. There's extra words on his scrap of paper now, a place and a date. And Sherlock has a mission now, he won't let her gift to him go to waste. She gave him Moriarty, disabled and unmoving and now he has to give her the rest. The web, glinting in the dawn. Soon the sun would shine down on it and he tear it down with righteous fury.  

* * *

 

Recovery was hard. Walking was hard, breathing was hard, everything was hard. And she couldn't stop coughing. It was utterly miserable. She had to learn to walk with crutches, because that was apparently not just walking with extra implements. She had to deal with a nurse and a doctor and a smarmy occupational therapist controlling every bit of her day. By the third week she wanted to hit someone with the bloody crutches. Her only relief was Mycroft bringing her books and audio books and stories about Sherlock when he was little. 

On the day her casts were allowed off he brought a suit. She could really only stare at it. Mycroft seemed discomforted by it and he shifted his weight before he gave an explanation. 'It was done today and it seemed fitting, so I picked it up.' There was a pause. 'There's the coat too.' She was standing on legs wobbly from disuse, staring at herself in the mirror with Mycroft regarding her appraisingly. The suit was grey with a blue pinstripe in it, small and thin to the point you have to squint to see it. The skirt fitted perfectly and the jacket even more. The fabric of it so soft and supple that she couldn't stop running her hands over it. And then there was a coat slung over her shoulders. A deep blue woollen one. The silhouette was slightly different and there was so much fabric in the back that it made a lovely twirl when she slipped her arms into the sleeves and turned. But really, this was Sherlock’s coat, adapted to fit and flatter her. Mycroft snorted, but it wasn't pure derision. 'Sherlock has an eye for it,' he muttered, eyes sliding over her again. 

It felt strange, to look in the mirror and see that coat but not on Sherlock. If she looked through her eyelashes she can almost imagine Sherlock standing there. It's a stretch, she's by no means as lanky as he is and her figure has curves instead of straights, like his. But it's there and it's oddly comforting. Mycroft is a scheming bastard, but he knows what she needs right now. Reassurance and comfort and the coat is both, the suit is armour. It makes her look like a businesswoman, like someone who knows their stuff and grinds the secretary under their lacquered heels each morning. Makes her feel stronger than she is and it's wonderful. So when she can finally see something else than four walls and a hallway and maybe a bit of garden, what sticks is how amazing the house is, instead of how clumsy and wobbly she is and how Mycroft has to support her because she keeps almost falling. 

They settled into a routine pretty quickly, or rather Mycroft settled her into a routine by handing her a handwritten planner at breakfast after the maid practically dragged her out of bed. There's an hour in the afternoon that was left blank, but the neat writing proclaimed that he wanted her to spend her day in the library. Sissi saw no reason to make a fuss, since she didn’t even know the place. She knew the room that had her in it for over a month, but not the rest of it, and the tour showed that there was a lot of house. She wondered how he had come to live here. Sherlock looked posh, but the place was nearly a palace. It rankled a bit that she was to be confined to the library and given an itinerary like a child, but Sissi knew he must have good reason. And the doctor said she had to take it easy and shouldn't do too much walking. She didn't want to take it easy. She didn't want to stay motionless for much longer. Baker Street had been horrible, but at least she wasn't wearing a cast there. It still felt like her legs were encased in lifeless, constricting plaster now and they had been off for a day. 

Mycroft seemed to pick up on her restlessness because he put his cutlery down with a clunk and looked up from his newspaper. 'Don't fidget, Sissi, I won't let you waste away, nor will you die of boredom.' That shut all her circling thoughts up quite nicely. 

He escorted her to the library and then tipped his hat and set off to do important government things. Sissi forgot to say goodbye to him, she was too overwhelmed and excited by the sight that met her eyes. She had contemplated ignoring the careful planning and simply going back to bed, but that really wasn't an option now that she saw how many books there were. She wasn't exactly sure what she expected, but it certainly wasn't this. The space had once been 2 large, spacious rooms, but now it was one open space with books lining the wall. There were low free-standing bookcases, too, arranged parallel to the walls, leaving enough space for comfortable furniture and a desk large enough to be a table. And then special presentation boxes that had to contain rare or special works, since some of them were actually chained to their stands. There was daylight falling neatly on the floor, carefully directed to not go near any of the books, making all the dark wood look much less depressing and more distinguished. 

The book nearest to her was a medieval manuscript and there was a box of gloves set next to it and a magnifying glass. A spike of discomfort went through her at seeing everything so neatly laid out in front of her, obviously premeditated. Mycroft knew so much about her, but not because she told him, he read it out of her like a book and it was a scary thing. The glint of the goldleaf caught her eye and she was so entranced by the vivid colours and the precise brushstrokes that any fear was soon forgotten. She didn't know much about manuscript or illumination, but it was fascinating and part of her wanted to take a fine paintbrush to paper to see if she could recreate it in some way. The spell broke the moment she started itching for a notebook to record what she was seeing. There wasn't one around, or a pen for that matter. Perhaps to make sure she would actually have use of the books in here for more than a day. 

There was food on the desk though and her stomach rumbled just from looking at it. So she ate what was on her plate and then tried to figure out if the place had a system. It was dark before she figured it out but when the maid came, Sissi had gotten a hold of most of the genres and themes in every case. A lot of it was simple textbooks on various subjects, there was classic fiction and a wide range of philosophical texts as well. And then there were a number of cases filled with rare books that took Sissi's breath away. She was just reverently handling a first edition when the maid came in and announced that dinner was ready, if Miss would be pleased to attend Mister Holmes. 

Sissi wasn't exactly pleased by dinner, or by being around Mycroft. He was rather pale and his mouth had a rather grim set to it. For a second it looked like someone else was sitting at the table and it sent shivers down her spine. She carefully avoided any topics that could lead to an outburst and hoped Mycroft wouldn't notice her sudden discomfort. It meant that she did not get any answers, but it was better than being shouted at.  

The uncomfortable evening set a trend for the rest of her time with Mycroft. Her every need was attended to and her schedule created with so much care that she could imagine Mycroft sitting over it with his nose against the paper, deep in thought over what she had to do next. But it wasn't nice. It felt like wearing a straightjacket. 

Mycroft looked her over with sharp eyes one night and smiled a grimace. 'You have recovered enough,' he said and his tone of voice was almost remorseful.

Sissi looked up from her food and pushed the feeling of relief flooding over her down again. 'So what do I do now?' she asked, and tried not to be afraid of the answer.

A genuine smile broke through Mycroft's features. 'I suspect that my parents would be most delighted to house you for a while. They need help with the horses.' Sissi smiled back and lined all her questions up to not be asked. Mycroft frowned like he could see what was happening inside her. When their plates were empty his expression went thoughtful and calculating at once. Sissi's insides turned cold and she was ready to make an excuse and bolt. Mycroft didn't let her. 

'Walk with me,' he said and then firmly took her arm and started towards the door, pulling her with him. Sissi tried very hard not to slip into memories. Her father dragging her along. Grip so heavy it left bruises. Her breath was suddenly coming in ragged gasps and there were spots in her vision, like snow on the tv. Mycroft was peering at her worriedly through them and gently led her outside. Sitting on the bench overlooking the grounds didn't help much but the cold air made the spots go.  _ You're not there, it isn't happening again. It was warm then. _

Mycroft only let go when he saw she wasn't going to faint. He crumpled in on himself, head in his hands. Her dad had never looked so remorseful in his life. 'I'm sorry.' His voice was so raw with emotion that Sissi startled. She had never heard Mycroft like this, not even after Adler. 'I promised I would fix things, instead I made them worse.' 

Sissi wanted to answer, wanted to speak, deny it and be done. She could deal with this, it was just stupid. She was making someone feel bad because she was acting like a child. And then Mycroft had looked up, cast a glance over her face and pulled her in a hug. 

She did not quite remember what Mycroft said to her, but the warmth of his words remained for days afterwards. Talk of family, deserving and care. She was sure that anyone else hearing these words would never believe their ears and Sherlock would fully delete them. To her they were balm on old wounds. She had been with a shrink once, but those sessions had not washed away reflexes born out of the need to survive the way Mycroft's voice did now. She knew it was hardly the cure for her problems, but it was bolstering anyway. The manor was less oppressive now, no memories waiting for her behind every corner and Mycroft not the embodiment of someone she feared. It was a shame really, that she wouldn't spend more time here. 

The tea was slowly poured into delicate china and set before her. Sissi supposed that in any other instance this would have her intimidated and upset, but it was different now. No images of angry words and broken cups flashing through her head. Mycroft was quiet at her side. it was rather funny to see such a powerful man cowed by his mother. Sissi had to admit that his mother was a rather magnificent woman and she would be just as cowed if that magnificence was turned against her. Mycroft had to suffer through well-meaning motherly care while Sissi basked in the glow that suffused her at the domestic scene. She felt more at home than she had in years. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Het spijt me' means 'I'm sorry' in Dutch, for everyone who doesn't speak it.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See, I told you it would take me a while! But good news, I'm probably doing all the editing in one go, so you won't have to wait very long (or hopefully, not at all) for the last chapters :)

After that it was quiet. Quiet in the way a busy routine could be. Sissi worked on the farm, because it was a farm, despite looking like a rich man's house. There were horses and chickens and goats. It was everything her parents’ farm had aspired to be. So she rode the horses and trained them as best as she could and in the afternoons Mycroft's tutors would show up and teach her increasingly outlandish things. First aid and fighting and how to handle a gun. She could see it for what it was now, the caring gesture of someone she could consider a brother. He was preparing her and it wasn't wholly a cold and calculating move. She was not a soldier like John and she knew she could not keep up with Sherlock in his dangerous ventures. She would be able to after Mycroft was finished. She would be on par with Doctor Watson if Mycroft had his way, if Sherlock still wanted her. The thought hurt more than Sissi expected it to.

* * *

Mycroft was surprised. Pleasantly surprised. And a little scared. Sissi looked like a sweet little girl, doing her homework and helping her grandparents on the farm. Until you zoomed in on the notes. Until you followed her into the barn where she turned into something so focussed it gleamed. He had to admit that her fighting skills weren't polished and her acting got worse under pressure. But she absorbed every single scrap of information put in front of her. On tactics, on culture. On criminals. She could administer first aid now, with the barest of tools. The tutor had set up a scenario for her and then put on the camera and watched. It was mesmerising. Granted, she was working on a body. A very dead man, died of heart failure. They had put some bullets in non-lethal places and broken quite a lot of bones. And when Sissi was done there were 3 bloody bullets lying on the ground next to her and every single fracture neatly splinted. And what she was provided with could hardly be called medical supplies. Still, every bullet had been removed before the timer had indicated that ten minutes passed. The splinting had taken longer, but the unfortunate deceased would have been alive, if he had been breathing in the first place. If she was to be an accomplice to Sherlock, she would be exercising these skills often, no doubt.

Her thinking improved as days went by, the pressure could be increased and she wouldn’t crack even if it wasn't elegant or particularly smart. Mycroft appreciated her thinking quite often, she was so different from Sherlock even when provided the same foundation. The dots connected differently, strategies vastly varying between them. Sissi banked on people underestimating her, on being unobtrusive and quiet. Her acting consisted of simple lies, orchestrated to win her time, not to win her the game. She was good at keeping her mouth shut, the times they had her subjected to certain scenarios. Mycroft hadn't watched those, his stomach turning queasy at the idea of Sissi at mercy of any kind of criminal. She was clumsy and often panicked, but if she won her time and thought her way out, it was a marvel to watch. He supposed he had cheated in a way, giving her the teacher's books. But he wanted to know, he needed to see. To experience what she would do with the information, where the differences with Sherlock would lie. She had read through his notebooks in the same way she went through Sherlock's. Quietly, absorbing it all. She would often quiz him on it. Ask questions and, after some cajoling, offer her own thoughts and ideas. It made Mycroft tingle with happiness.

* * *

It usually didn't take his whole bag of tricks to make people do what he wanted them to do. Mycroft was a master at it after all, he had taken care to not provide Sissi with every single technique he knew. Her insecurity put him on his toes. It was volatile. He could say something that would push anyone into agreeing with him, but Sissi would twist it in an alarming way and she would vehemently disagree. And Mycroft had promised himself that he would not do anything without consent. He could steer her, like he often steered Sherlock. But he would not decide for her any more after this. This would be the last time he would push her buttons and manipulate her. It wasn't a very ethically sound decision as it was and for some reason it bothered him. It confirmed his suspicions that he indeed started to think of her as family somewhere along the line. The fact that his parents treated her the same only solidified the feeling. He was as bad as his mother, wanting a girl to dress up and fuss over.

It had been her prowess after all, that had set the thought in his mind, provided the idea that with a bit of a push she’d be capable of so much more than simply minding Sherlock. The confidence issues needed to be fixed, but that was the reason he was trying to convince her in the first place. He managed in the end, but it took more work than he would have liked. He suspected she would figure it out, probably afterwards. Hopefully it would result in a row and Mycroft could simply start being honest. There was too much at stake for the truth now, he needed her at her best first. Wanted her to show that the enormous amount of effort had not been in vain.

'It'll be rather elementary, the godforsaken place is rather a hotbed for criminals who think they're different. You'll get to be lookout, it's a simple scout but we don't want anything going wrong. It’s an ideal first outing for you.'

Sissi had to have perfected her eyebrow game sometime in the last few months, because the look she gave him was pure hauteur and a tinge of 'Oh really?'

Mycroft pushed all the feelings of guilt and shame away and smiled. 'Yes, I know I'll have jinxed it now, but I trust you and Anthea with my life.' That was the wrong thing to say, because now Sissi was paling slightly and looked tense. He couldn't take it back, because he had seen what she did for Sherlock, for someone she thought didn't even care. She was prepared to die for someone she hardly knew. That thought suffused Mycroft with a glow. Someone so unselfish, so pure, trusted him. That had to mean he was redeemable, that he hadn't walked the path of good intentions so far there was no going back.

Anthea walked up to them and set herself in the chair at the other side of the aisle. Her pumps were kicked off and stockinged feet landed on the exquisite leather seat across from her. Sissi got a good once-over again, which made her hunch in on herself. Mycroft wanted to hiss and hug her, but that would be completely counterproductive. This was about letting Sissi see she could do it, not about him putting a plaster on every hurt. So Mycroft withdrew and tried not to notice Sissi’s insecurity taking her over. She agreed though, after long moments spent in silence while her face only drew darker through some inner debate with her demons. It wouldn’t cause Anthea any trouble to solve this particular debacle on her own, but that was why they’d chosen this particular -dare he say it- mission.

* * *

The dress was uncomfortable, the room was uncomfortable, being around Anthea was uncomfortable. It was like Mycroft had designed hell, just for her, up close and personal. She hadn't want to cry her eyes out, but it had happened anyway, in the dark and as quietly as possible. Anthea had noticed and instead of disregarding her for it had given her a hug and the assurance that the first one was always the worst. It didn't make Sissi feel any better, but at least she wasn't shaking now. It would ruin the picture they had painstakingly created. Sissi hoped her acting skills would stay with her and not waltz away with Panic and Despair. She had to act like the heels weren't hurting and all these eyes on her weren't sending shivers of discomfort down her spine. Her hands were clammy and she wasn't succeeding at seeming relaxed, but at least she could still follow the conversation of the businessmen around her and say sweet nothings at the right intervals. It all worked right until it didn't.

The first sign something was wrong was a strange figure appearing and the conversation around her suddenly stuttering to a halt. He was squat and scowling, barking at select people in the room in Russian. The room as a whole took a deep breath and then the chatter started again. It reminded Sissi of a classroom with kids that realised the teacher wasn't angry at them. Sissi knew enough to not enquire, because that would surely make someone tattle. This wasn't just the teacher, because Anthea was talking to him, but the principal. And she had no way of sending a message, besides the generic code they had communicated before. So she tapped her hip three times, on the one sequin that would send the tap through to Anthea's receiver. And then all thoughts of figuring out the newcomer were forgotten, because a tall menace stepped into the room.

He had to be thinking that the thin disguise as a waiter would offer some kind of protection to the guns suddenly and subtly appearing around her. Sissi wanted to groan, roll her eyes and scream all at once. She didn't have the time to warn him. He hadn't even seen her yet. Meat in a pretty dress to be ignored no doubt. Sissi had to bite her lip to forget how much that thought stung. Seeing him swaying on his feet and with a disguise that was really an insult to his prey did not take away the sting. It hurt and it hurt even more to be paralyzed and unable to act. She almost couldn’t stand it, but what could she do? She couldn't take on that many people and if she did she would reveal herself, and Anthea, and then there would be hell to pay. So she watched as the Russian rounded on Sherlock, waving away all offered help and overpowering him with so much ease that it almost looked fake.

Sherlock didn't even protest, he was swaying on his feet and he was actually mumbling under his breath with a gun pressed to his head. The man had full command of the room now and he was scanning for any and all abnormalities. Sissi managed not to freeze up, panic coursing through her veins.

The glass in her hand was almost shaking, but thankfully no-one was looking at her. It puzzled her for a second until horrible clarity arrived. They had to notice her, she was the only other newcomer in the place, even if she was posing as vapid and silly. But they did not notice her, the principal only glanced over her, skimming over her enhanced breasts and outrageous dress. And the rest of the class was too busy to chatter about the superior skills of their boss. The name that was dropped around the room chilled Sissi to her core. Moriarty. The slimy harrowing smile, the words like sticky syrup. She could feel the bile rising to her mouth and then the whole situation went sideways even more.

Anthea was marched back into the main room, where Sherlock was on his knees. It made Sissi want to cry and shout but instead she squeezed the glass in her hand so hard it hurt. Sherlock wasn't himself, she could see it from a mile away. His eyes were glazed and he had no control over his limbs. He had looked her straight in the eyes a few times and there was no recognition in his manner. Sherlock would recognise her, Sissi was fairly sure about that. And he didn't, so something had to be wrong. Was he taking drugs? Mycroft had made allusions to it and the people at Scotland Yard had made jokes. It didn't sit right, but she had no way to check. Unfortunately, Sherlock did recognise Anthea. He sneered and made an effort to pull himself together, restrained as he was.

'Has he sent you to herd me?' he demanded, suddenly a lot more like himself, though his voice was slurred and the swaying continued. Anthea stared at him, her usual composure gone. She looked dumbstruck for a moment and then there was the click of a gun's safety being disengaged. Sherlock didn't ask any more questions and Anthea kept her mouth shut and complied with the orders barked at her in Croatian. Sissi was frozen in her spot and neither Sherlock nor Anthea paid any attention to her. Only when they had been escorted out and most of the menacing weapons disappeared again could she breathe. To promptly panic again. Mycroft would kill her, he would take her to a dark room and shout at her and then painfully and slowly murder her.

She managed to get out without arousing more suspicion, Sissi didn't recall what she had said or done to make it happen. The faint ticks of a message coming through only registered when she was sitting on the bed in their hotel room, tears starting to run as the adrenaline faded. The notepad was specked with wet blobs of ink and blotted paper, but she got the sequence of morse code down.

And that was as far as she got. She stared blindly at the words that had formed. They said something about heading into a nature reserve and the road they were on. She didn’t want to think about how Anthea had managed to transmit it, or about how she clearly believed Sissi would catch it and do something. She knew she had to do _something_ , to get up and call Mycroft or call a cab and go after them. But her legs couldn't move and her head was buzzing with thoughts. She couldn't do it, she didn't even know where they were going and she couldn't sneak into a place that Moriarty had anything to do with. She wasn't good, she wasn't a soldier and she wasn't a spy. She had been stupid to even agree. So she stayed in the hotel room and tried to ignore the roiling of her gut, the guilty feeling of not doing anything. It wiggled and squirmed and bit like acid. The little light there had been faded and none of the aching feelings inside her dissipated. Her head was a screaming chaos of thoughts. A constant tug of war. _Go, don't go. You can't, you should. Stupid, horrible._

Sissi didn't recall how much time had passed, but the moon was halfway across the sky when the tv turned on. The image was static and it flickered in black and white. It also showed Sherlock and Anthea in a cell, Sherlock splayed on the ground like a starfish, a cut on his face. Anthea was sitting in a corner, making herself as small as possible and looking miserable. Sissi couldn't see any signs of injury, as tightly folded onto herself as she was. It set the monster in her stomach biting again. _You should have stopped that car, you could have done it._ And more viciously, like the lash of a whip. _No you couldn't, you're stupid._ And then Sherlock's voice cut through the fray. Why did it always have to be Sherlock’s voice? _'Idiot, there were a plethora of things you could have done to prepare instead of feeling so sorry for yourself! Get a move on, it doesn't matter what you can and can't do. Use your sodding brain!'_ So she did, because what else was there to do?

Sherlock was right, like always, it had been easier once she started using her brain. She prepared as best as she could, which mostly consisted of stomping out every trail of panic and packing her bag with as much useful but innocent-looking things as she could find. She wasn't sure what she was doing, but that didn't matter as much as before. Her hands lingered over the assortment of guns that Mycroft had supplied. Did the bastard know something like this would happen? Sissi decided she wouldn't dwell on it, selected the cutest and most female one she could find and even managed not to shudder. She looked cute and small and harmless and she would have to use every bit of that. She texted Mycroft explaining where she was going and then threw the phone into the bushes. She knew the emergency number like she knew her favourite book and there was a phone sewn into the bag if she needed it. The taxi driver was eyeing her with some concern, but he heeded her advice to move country swiftly enough when he saw the tip she was giving.

It was easy, once she put her head to it and left all the silly thoughts behind. A simple matter of checking the map on her phone and where it was raining at the moment. Getting in was even easier, since the idiots didn't even check if their boss had a daughter. It was downright disgusting how far a slutty outfit could reach. The smarter guys were harder to fool, but a few choice words and a binder solved most of the issues there. In the right clothes she looked a lot like a strapping young guard eager to do the dirty work and anyone who checked would find the paperwork had vanished. Getting Anthea out involved a few whiskey bottles being distributed to the right guards and shut down cameras. The management really didn't pay their grunts enough if they got drunk on the job, but Sissi was not complaining about that one.

Getting to Sherlock was harder. The bugger had been insulting everyone constantly and they had cottoned on that this was the man who had played with their hero. Sissi didn't know what Moriarty had promised here to secure his minions, but it had to be some rather amazing feats. Sherlock had been in the little room for a week before she could even get a glimpse. The way they defended the spider was almost religious and it frightened her. They didn't know he was dead and buried very very deep and the only conclusion she could draw from that was that someone had taken up the empty space. She could only hope it wasn't someone worse.

Sherlock had passed from not being himself into full blown delirium. He was muttering in different languages now and spooking his guards yelling about demons and angels. He shouted about heaven and hell sometimes and recited things in Latin. She didn't know enough of it to follow, but it proved the key to the room in the end. They were so desperate for information, they thought he was taunting them, so she only had to say she could speak Latin and then the path to Sherlock was open completely. And even a surely insane Sherlock could still get rid of his torturer. Sissi had read it off the man and was turning the information around in her head when he started talking.

The man was running up the stairs in seconds and somehow nobody came to check, which meant her camera loop was doing its job. Sherlock barely responded when she took the chains off and it felt like he was burning up inside when she touched his skin. It worried Sissi, but she had to keep her head straight now. It was only the home stretch, they would be out and then she could worry and possibly cry for days.

The hallways were so quiet it was eerie. Only Sherlock’s heaving breaths were keeping her company. He was barely on his feet, swaying and stumbling, but thankfully still moving. Carrying him out would have made things a whole lot harder. And then there was a guard, standing so painfully close to the exit and the way out and the gun in her hand didn't feel so cute any more. She had shot targets and bottles and moving objects but never humans. Until now.

Her body even moved without any guidance from her, it just did its job. The recoil and the blood made Sissi feel ill and she had to hold on to Sherlock now. He didn't even startle at the sound, just stood there, gaunt and slick with sweat and his own blood, hair spilling down his face and back. Sissi took a deep breath and locked the feeling away. She could feel it later, but now she needed to get Sherlock out. So she set one foot in front of the other and tried to keep her hands from shaking.

Only when they were outside in the cold, crisp air and the only door to the place was securely locked down that Sissi turned around and tried to vomit her stomach out of her body. It didn't work and she still felt horrible. The squirming guilt was back, tar coating her insides and blackening every last inch of her. When she gained control over her limbs she started leading Sherlock away again. And then Anthea appeared over a nearby hill and soundlessly walked over to them. Sissi was glad to relinquish Sherlock's weight to her. His ribs were visible to such a degree it scared her, but he was still heavy enough that her shoulder had started to hurt. Anthea slung Sherlock’s arm over her own shoulders and started a lumbering pace towards the trees. 'There will be a helicopter flying in in 8 hours. They're going to land a few miles west from here. I suggest we walk there now and camp out.' Sissi couldn't even nod, the darkness sloshed around inside her, but there was nothing else. Just sterile white numbness and grey, dull exhaustion.

Some things came through to her, the dampness of the fog and the cold breeze caressing her. The rest was a haze of blankness. There was a nagging sense of danger. Sherlock. Fever. She couldn't connect the words to anything real, so the feeling slipped away again. Her legs hurt from the walking, it wasn't that far, or at least Anthea assured her it wasn't. It was all uphill and they had to take turns supporting Sherlock, almost dragging him with them. He was getting weaker by the second, slowly losing control over his body.

He was stumbling over the stones littering the ground and each step became more and more erratic and uncoordinated. All the usual grace and poise had been washed away by whatever had happened to him in the small damp room. Everyone in the compound had kept their mouths shut about it to Sissi's frustration. As a woman they hadn't wanted to offend her sensibilities and as a man she was still an outsider, not trusted with the nemesis of their god. Sissi's imagination didn't have much trouble, seeing how much Sherlock was struggling. He winced with every step, sometimes crying out in pain, whimpering and cursing them under his breath. Deduction filled in the gaps her imagination had left, scars and barely healed wounds, ribs painfully visible and his skin no longer fair but sickly pale. Whenever she happened to meet his eyes, they were bloodshot and rolling erratically in their sockets. Unfocused and unseeing. Starved, beaten and not even allowed to sleep. It was hard to keep focussed on walking, to set one foot in front of the other. She wanted to go back, go back and set the infernal place alight so no-one would ever be hurt like that again. Mycroft would arrange it and if he didn't, she would go back herself. Go back and watch it all burn.

And then they arrived, it wasn't much different than the rest of the forest. High and densely grouped trees, with remarkably little undergrowth. Here there was a slight levelling of the ground and the trees were less present. It would take a skilled pilot to land and it was unlikely they would be noticed by any of the people in the compound. They were busy trying to open their only exit, so Sissi wasn't worried. There was nothing to distract her from the spikes of anger and pain that coursed through her when she saw Sherlock now. No feet to be moved, no checking for rubble or stones to trip over. No concentration needed to stay upright and set herself so she won't tumble down the hill again. Just waiting.

It was excruciating, straining to hear the blades whipping through air. Shadows and leaves making up what should be metal and salvation. Anthea had a fire going now, it seemed like time had slipped through the cracks and taken bits away. It was crackling and Sherlock almost had his nose in the embers, so desperate to come close to the warmth. Sissi unzipped her jacket and shivered when the damp hit her, Sherlock didn't seem to notice the extra layer, hypnotised by the flames. His hair was long now, full of leaves and twigs and tangled beyond recognition. It fanned out after him, lying hunched up beside the fire. His face next to the softly glowing coals. It made him look sharper than he already was, shadows deepening every angle in his face.

The helicopter was barely heard over the rushing of the leaves and the crackling of the fire. Only Anthea tapping her on her shoulder roused Sissi from her misery. From the crystal clear memory of startling blue eyes in a young face and the perfect bullet wound in the center of his head. The smell of gunpowder, tangy and harsh and blood blooming slowly. She was aware of people talking to her, felt someone’s hand on her arm as she was led into the helicopter. She could recall Mycroft looking at her from the co-pilot’s seat, looking worried but tinged with pride as well. It all paled in comparison to the memory of Sherlock being led away on a nondescript English landing pad. Still unseeing and unresponsive, talking about the trajectory of a bullet to a patient EMT.

It felt like something had changed now, the cozy farmhouse no longer so warm or welcoming. It had changed now that she had raised her gun to shoot a human being instead of a dead paper target. She had lied now, lied and schemed and manipulated. She had killed for Sherlock. Shot someone, without a second thought to get Sherlock to safety.

Sissi felt like she was soiled now, no-one could see, but she was only mud and soot inside. Every time she opened her mouth to talk about it, only ragged breathing would come out, her throat suddenly parched and her breath coming in heaving gasps. It kept coming back, her dreams giving her the moment back every time she closed her eyes. But the darkness faded to grey, slowly and the dreams became less frequent. Anthea was there sometimes, when she couldn't sleep because the gunshot kept ringing in her ears, talking about Mycroft's silliness, or her work. Mycroft read to her, like Sherlock had done. She didn't need to say what she had done, they plucked it right out of her. But no-one looked away in disgust. It calmed her down, without a single word being said. It wasn't right and she would always be made of mud now, but it was understood. She was understood, accepted and cared for here. That washed the hurt away.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ANOTHER CHAPTER WHO KNEW 
> 
> I'm bored and I have nothing to do so I thought I'd turn myself to editing the last chapters. This one is, well, a little far-fetched if you ask me, but then again, what about Sherlock _isn't_? And in true first fanfic fashion, it'll only get worse from here! Or am I just taking a leaf out of Moffat's book?

Sherlock’s parents were growing old and Mycroft had murmured that with every year they grew more stubborn too. Sissi had been witness to the squabbles and rather irrational decisions. The clean white card that proclaimed John Watson and Mary Morstan were to be married could have been one announcing her death. They would want to go and they would want Sissi to go and Sherlock would be there. That made her stomach clench in fear. Mycroft had kept her informed of every move that Sherlock had made over the months, kept her appraised of every pawn that toppled and every thread in Moriarty’s web that snapped under his vicious attention. But it wasn’t enough, not yet and a small voice kept saying  _ not ever _ . If she came back to life now, if she gave herself away, there would be new spiders crawling out of the woodwork before she could blink. Other spies, other assassins, other master criminals. So Mycroft had received a text telling him what his parents were up to and she tried to focus on her homework. 

He appeared before dinner, suspiciously punctual, but then again he was probably already aware of this particular crisis and spent the night trying to convince his suddenly hard of hearing parents that bringing Sissi was not a good idea. 

'Nonsense, the girl should get out more, Mycroft. Besides, I called Mary and let her know straight away, she had no reservations.' 

Sissi tried not to squirm and Mycroft started to look annoyed. 'We can hardly afflict the poor people with all the Holmeses, Mummy.' 

That did not make her yield either. 'Sissi is not a Holmes is she?' Mycroft was suddenly bristling and Sissi held her breath basking in the familiar glow that Mycroft considering her a sister always brought. 

Mrs Holmes caught the movement and the expression on her son’s face and suddenly turned thoughtful. 'Say, Mycroft, do you have anything you should tell me?' 

_ Oh god, that she had to draw such a wrong conclusion out of that. _ Sissi could feel a blush creeping up on her, any retort dead on her tongue because of how outlandish the idea was. Mycroft looked shocked for a second, shocked enough she almost felt thankful and then rounded on his mother again. 

'Really, mother, are you that desperate for a wedding? That you assume things that aren't anywhere in sight? Pathetic.' 

Mrs. Holmes face went suddenly dark and that was the end of negotiations. Mr Holmes was staring rather amusedly at his wife and gave Sissi a wink. Sissi tried to smile back and then hurriedly escaped for the horses before she could be drawn into the shouting.

Mycroft joined her in the stables some time later, looking distinctly more harried than before. He leaned over the stable door and regarded her with his usual scrutiny. 

'I feel I must apologize for my mother, it was most unbecoming of her.' 

Sissi tried not to snort and busied her hands with the brush. 

'It's all right, I don't think she would understand.'

She ached to talk to him about it, to ask about why he had accepted her the way he did. To ask why he hadn't sought a relationship with anyone before. She had her guesses, but that was rather different from hearing it from Mycroft's own lips. But if he really saw her as a sister, she would hear it in time. He looked ready to break as it was, the words straining behind his lips. It wasn't like Mycroft to be emotional and easily angered. It occasionally happened under stress but there was no indication there was anything particularly stressful going on. So it had to be something else. Something personal. It seemed she was the only person Mycroft ever shared more personal things with, things that weren’t designed to influence and not meant to set the chessboard in motion. She let the moment pass and then drew him into discussing preparations, because if she was to attend the wedding, well, she’d rather not do it as Sissi. 

They came up with enough options soon enough, because really, the two people who plotted Moriarty's capture could cook something up that would fool Sherlock Holmes. It was rather fun, really, to put her mind to something a little more silly. It was harder to get Mycroft's parents to accept that she would not be at the wedding as herself. Mrs. Holmes looked rather piercingly at her son and even gave her with a hard look but swallowed their fib about nerves nonetheless. So now her red hair was brown and with her dark, if festive clothes, and a neat bun she could easily pass as Mycroft's planner, which was much more easily explained than a charge of Mrs. Holmes. Even simply for the fact that now Mrs. Holmes had no reason to go. 

Mary had made no comment of the backtrack on the RSVP and Sissi was sure both John and Sherlock were just too happy that Mycroft was there to realise that Anthea wasn't actually Anthea. John seemed the sort of man to mistake one woman for another, at any rate. She had pressed Mycroft hard enough, with the convincing idea that she would have to do something, if she was to be his assistant that she wasn’t required to sit the dinner anymore and could escape if needed. She hoped it would give Sherlock less opportunity to see through the thin disguise and it was terribly relieving to not have to sit quietly through the speeches. 

It wouldn't be game-breaking if he did find out, but it would be tedious. She didn't admit to herself that she’d rather scope out the field before appearing again. See more of Sherlock, see how he was feeling. Instead of simply hearing dry reports of takedowns and undercover work from Mycroft. With the last few reports her fingers had itched to help, to exercise the skills she was taught so carefully. Mycroft's stern looks shut her down every single time. There was something strangely pleasant about having a brother watch out for you even if he did it by looking at you all disapproving.

Sissi couldn't pretend to be comfortable, but thankfully she was allowed to stare at her text screen and handle Anthea's work for a day. It was part of the character after all and it was good practice. Sissi had faith that even on her one free day Anthea would likely be reviewing and correcting every single thing that she typed. The phone didn't prevent her from spotting Sherlock sitting in the pew nearest to the altar. It felt like her martial arts tutor had kicked on a bruised spot again and she wobbled on her feet before Mycroft caught her eyes and grasped her elbow to steady her. He eased her down next to him and scrutinised her face, his nose wrinkled with concern before turning to his phone. Hers bleeped after a few seconds. 

_ We can go if you need to. MH _

_ Don't be silly. S _

She it was impossible to take her eyes off Sherlock for the entirety of the service, no matter how much she wanted to, every single movement he made like the stab of a knife. And then it was over and there was only the reception to endure. People, dancing, merriment. Hell. She only had to evade the pictures being taken and the people randomly accosting her to talk about John and Mary and how she knew them. It was getting easier to lie. To smile and fake a text or a call and stalk off with an apologetic look. She wasn't afraid they’d notice her lies any more or scared that someone would confront her for her behaviour. It was ironic really, that she was so confident in her skills now, when she had felt like a fraud for so long. Now she was one. 

Major Sholto drew her eyes when he arrived and Mycroft kindly filled her in on the scandal that was a Major surviving the crows. She desperately needed a distraction from black curls and a saddened face. John lit up in the most enlightening way when he saw the man. Most of the people around them were merely uncomfortable. Scared of the large and looming man in his military garb and the scars disfiguring his face. Her gut gave a tug at seeing the articles and the forums on her phone and she knew enough to not ignore her intuition. Even if she did not have a lot of experience, she had both Mycroft's and Sherlock’s notes at her back. That had to be enough. Every nerve in her body was screaming at her that there was a murder waiting to happen here and that she had to prevent it. 

She didn't eat, because after she had eaten, there would be speeches and Sherlock would be bored and if he was bored he would look around and certainly find the person that wasn't Anthea and all their work would be for nothing. So she swayed her hips at one of the waiters and made small talk about how her boss was so horrid and he was enjoying himself and eating lovely things while she had to be in the background and work. It earned her a bun with leftover roast in it and some of the cream filled pastries too. Her inspection of the kitchen also verified that none of the staff were in on it. No sharp implements missing. It was frustrating, the way the pieces did not fit together. It could not be any of the guests. They would be the targets most likely and she already had a target. So who was it? Who was invisible as well? There was a flash of the camera and then the answer appeared.  _ The photographer. _ She turned in the doorway and pointedly did not look at Sherlock sitting at one of the tables. 

_ What now?  _

Mycroft had the answer, because he always had all the answers, it seemed. He slipped a few choice words to his brother and approached the Major, while she neatly broke into the man's room and set herself in the chair near the window. Picking the lock calmed her down, tempering the rush of adrenaline her deductions had brought on. Sherlock would be feeling the same rush soon. No doubt overshadowing any of the people speaking. It did not take the Major very long to appear, he looked stony, full of resolve. Sissi tried to ignore the frisson of fear seeping down her spine and kept her hands in plain view. 

'I do not want to kill you, Major Sholto, I am only here to help.' 

The man regarded her with cold eyes and then sat down in the second chair, a pistol loosely in his hands. 'Explain,' he demanded. 

Sissi took a deep breath and started. This would be a careful picking of words, but if she did it right it would save a life.

'There's a murderer walking around and he's aiming to kill you. I'm afraid I don't know how he will, I don't have any data. Sherlock should figure it out now that his brother has supplied him the details.' 

The man was silent after that. Something about the silence, the quiet acceptance, let her know her words were taken for fact and Sissi felt her heart clench for him. Only a soldier would assume someone was out for his life. 

Minutes trickled by, until there was a  pounding on the door. 

'Major Sholto!' Sherlock’s voice hurt more than she had ever expected it to and understanding of some kind bloomed on the Major's face. She really had to learn to control her face. He nodded at her and motioned to the window. Sissi felt frozen on the spot. She could not predict well what the man would do, but he had to be depressed, maybe he would let himself be killed anyway. She looked in his eyes and tried to communicate without a word that he was not guilty of anything. There was a more resolute nod and he answered Sherlock, listening to the detective’s explanation of how the murder had already been done and then stalled enough to let her jump out of the window. It was utterly ridiculous, but the man was alive and that was the important bit. 

Mycroft was waiting for her and smirked at her grimace. She knew she had to perfect her techniques, but Sherlock hadn't spotted her yet and wasn't that the whole point of their charade? That and making Mrs. Holmes happy. They stayed outside, falling into the habit of discussing plans and options at all possible times. It felt strange and silly, but comfort was already replacing most of her lingering doubt. There was something awe inspiring about the fact that she could communicate her thoughts so easily and that a man like Mycroft would actually listen, hear her words so their conversation was more of a discussion than anything else. 

They had to direct Sherlock after this and they had to know where to. And then the sound of a violin filled the courtyard through the windows. Mycroft fell silent in the middle of his argument about why they have to send Sherlock to deal with the guy in Croatia next. He was up on his feet the next moment and offering his hand with small smile. No-one saw them waltzing on the grass while Mary and John had their first dance. And then the words spilled over, the need to understand pushing them out with force. Why the violin wasn’t happy, why Sherlock wasn’t happy. He looked fine, but she could spot the cracks in the exterior. There were moments where he looked just as devastated as in those horrible pictures. And she didn’t understand it, the feeling of something big and important going over her head painfully uncomfortable. 

'Why is he so sad?' 

Mycroft's sure steps faltered for a second, but he corrected  himself and gave her a rare smile. 

'You still don't get it do you? Sometimes you have to lose things to feel how important they are.'

She barely had the time to think, to reflect on what Mycroft had said and what she was feeling. The Holmeses gladly delegated almost all the work on the farm to her. And Mycroft hadn't stopped the flood of tutors, it really didn't look like he was going any time soon. So she worked and tried not to let her thoughts overwhelm her when she fell asleep at night. 

It didn't work all that well, her dreams always filled with sharp cheekbones and biting words. She woke to an empty ache too often and Sissi pushed it all away. The feeling had edges so sharp she would cut herself looking at it. It was darkness and pain and it leaked around the edges of her mind. Working until her muscles ached helped. Working until everything was a haze and she couldn't quite focus on people's faces, not see the worried expressions. Not see Mycroft's slight frown of disappointment. She didn't know why he was disappointed, she didn't want to know. Did not want to examine it too closely, because there was no turning back if she did. 


End file.
